Speak Now
by Musical Redhead
Summary: Before they were popular and Puffed, they were freshmen; before his mother was Pulitzerized, she just wanted to run the family newspaper company with her brother as her right-hand man. Then it all went to hell. Can anything be salvaged? Flashes to the past shed light on how they got here. Machete Order, Dugray-Huntzberger Spinoff
1. Part III: Back to December

**Disclaimer** : The Dugray and Huntzberger families (and Francie) were not conceived in my brain, but their elaborate backstory was (periodic author notes will be at my LJ). Welcome to the fringe.

 **Part III: Back to December**

Tristan Dugray dialed a number on his cellphone as he reclined in the driver's seat of his car. He was parked outside a Boston office building as he waited for his girlfriend. No, that was wrong, she wasn't his girlfriend, but his fiancée, and not for too much longer. They were on the home stretch. The bridal shower was a month ago and the calligrapher was addressing the invitations. They'd be ready to mail in no time.

The phone rang three times before his sister answered, "This is Guinevere."

He reached to turn down the volume of the radio so he could hear her better. "Hey, you're actually at your desk. I figured there was a fifty-fifty chance you were on the road."

"For a very limited time, I am at my desk. What's up?"

"What does your work schedule look like next weekend? I was wondering if you could come up to Boston, maybe do some shopping."

"You did?" she asked, too brightly.

"Yeah."

"Where would you get an idea like that? I'm sure the gossip girl would be a much better shopping companion than me. I'm positive, in fact."

"Could you please stop calling her the gossip girl?" he asked with a cringe. "You aren't even in the position to call the kettle or any other kitchenware black. You are the blackest of them all."

"You're missing my context. I mean the show _Gossip Girl_ ," Guinevere said. "I think she'd fit right in with Blair and Selena, probably because she went to Constance Billard-St. Judes School, just like them."

"That isn't even a real boarding school," Tristan argued.

"But it's based off one—not Choate, obviously."

"Since when do you watch _Gossip Girl_?"

"When I'm jet lagged and don't know what day it is and flip through the channels looking for _One Tree Hill_ ," Guinevere said.

He scowled half-heartedly. "How can you watch that?"

"How can you not?"

"I think it would be too weird for me."

"I'll admit it's no _Friday Night Lights_ , but there's drama, there's basketball. What more could I want?" She returned to his original inquiry, "What do you need to shop for, anyway?"

"I don't need anything. I was hoping the two of you could hang out for a day."

"I hate shopping. You know this. How about we all go see the Red Sox play and I'll explain the finer points of the game?"

"She's not really into baseball."

"Sounds like we're at an impasse."

"Come on, it would mean a lot to me if you bonded with her. She's your future sister-in-law, you know."

"The key word there being future. For two more months she's just the girl whose purse you hold while she shops. See what I did there? I brought it back to _you_ shopping with her."

He asked, "Do you have a dress for the wedding?"

"No."

"There you go," he said, raising his shoulder an inch. "This way you can get help from the bride herself and you won't have to worry about it anymore."

His sister argued, "I have two months, I wasn't worried. It's still pretty low on my priority list. It's just how I operate. The deadline is too far away."

"Your lack of motivation astounds me," he said flatly.

"It's not that I lack it," she said. "And I'm not a self-saboteur or anything interesting like that. I just can't force myself to care before I absolutely have to. I've always been this way, haven't you noticed?"

"I guess I thought something like your only brother's wedding might be different than an assignment."

"Nope. I like the rush of the last minute. It's when I do my best work." She sighed in resignation. "But, if this bonding thing is so important to you, I can actually come tomorrow if you don't already have plans."

He sat up straighter. "Tomorrow, you can? Are you _covering_ the Sox game?" he asked accusingly. "You wouldn't even be able to sit in the stands if you're there for work."

There was a silent pause. "Tristan, do you realize I haven't covered baseball since I went to J-school? _Four_ years ago."

Slowly, he said, "Yes."

"Mm-hmm."

"I just assumed you got your old beat back after you graduated."

"That's not how it works when you take a step back, it's cutthroat out here. I've been covering hockey."

"Oh," he said, frowning. "You learn something new every day."

"Yeah, pretty sure I've mentioned it within the last two years."

"I thought you were just making general conversation when you talked about the Rangers."

Dryly, she said, "It's good to know you don't fall prey to _Slate's_ click bait."

"If it makes you feel any better, I haven't read all the articles in Mom's series about the women's shelter from last year," he said. So she won a second Pulitzer for the work. He never read the article from her first one either. That one was older than him though, so he thought he was off the hook. "Was it a happy transition to hockey?"

"It's fine. It's not like I got turfed to features or anything drastic like that," Guinevere said. "It is what it is, and it doesn't really matter anymore."

"Why not?"

"I will tell you in person, now that I'm coming to see you. I'll take the train tomorrow morning. How's that?"

"Sounds great." He glanced at the office building and saw the woman he was waiting for emerge from the entrance. "Call when you need me to come get you."

XXX

"Hurry up," Francine Jarvis said, turning back to her 13 year old charge, who was dragging her feet down the hallway. "Why are you walking so slowly?"

The girl, Tiffany, looked back toward the elevator terminal, as though willing one of the set of doors to open. She had dull brown hair and skin that looked at least lightly tanned all the time. "I'm coming." Suddenly, she determinedly caught up to Francie and her younger sister, Danielle. As soon as they got inside the luxury apartment, she grabbed a small mail box key that hung from the wall and turned back to the door.

"Where are you going?" Francie asked with a frown.

Tiffany held up the key. "Getting the mail, duh."

Francie reluctantly let the girl pass, but crossed her arms and watched the door. To the younger girl, she said, "Get started on your homework."

"Can I do it in my room?"

"No, sit at the table. Ask for help if you need it." Francie leaned back against the kitchen counter, tapping her self-manicured fingers on her upper arm. After a few minutes, she asked, "Why is she taking so long?"

Danielle looked up from the backpack she'd opened on the table top. "She probably wants to see our neighbor's boyfriend. He stays with her over the weekend a lot. She usually gets home from work soon. If we time it right, we meet them in the hallway on their way in."

Francie had yet to see her employer's neighbor, having only taken the nanny job two weeks ago. She'd worked as a teacher upon graduating from college, while taking grad classes at the same time. It had been a terrible idea, trying to balance a demanding job as well as continuing her education. She needed more flexibility. She saw an ad for a divorced woman needing a nanny for her two daughters. The job included a place to live as well as a modest salary, which was too good to pass up. Francie's baby-sitting career spanned back to her Catholic school days, so she had the experience.

"So how hot is he?" she asked.

Danielle pushed her brown hair back behind her ear and raised her brows enthusiastically. "He's really hot. He's tall and has blond hair. Tiffany wants to marry him." The girl made a face. "But he's marrying _Rosemary_."

"I bet he's too old for Tiffany anyway."

"He isn't that old. He graduated college last year, so Rosemary is a year older than him, because she graduated two years ago. Shouldn't the girl be younger?"

Francie pursed her lips. "She doesn't have to be, and it's only a year." She glanced at her watch. "I think I'd like to see if Tiffany has good taste. I'm not too young for him."

Danielle hopped up from the table and rushed over. "I'll come too."

Francie eyed her. "Are you sure your sister is the only one with a crush?"

The girl smiled and ducked down as they walked out the door. They found Tiffany at the row of mail boxes two doors down from their own. She was slowly taking out one item at a time, studying it before glancing at the elevator and then reaching for another envelope. Rinse, lather, repeat.

"What's taking so long?" Francie asked as they approached.

The girl jumped and turned to them quickly. "We have a lot of mail today. I want to make sure I get it all. Just go back inside, I'll be right there." Tiffany had yet to warm up to Francie. She was still adjusting to her parents' divorce, though they had been separated for a while, and thought she was too old for a nanny.

Francie shook her head. "I can't go now. I hear a really hot guy is about to walk through here. I like to gawk at hot guys as much as the next girl."

Tiffany scowled at her little sister.

"I do have a question though," Francie said. "How do you two know so much about your neighbor?"

"We listen to her phone conversations when we share an elevator," Danielle said. "Sometimes her friend, Juliet, is with her. We like it better when her boyfriend visits." She turned to tease her sister. "Tiffany wants to kiss hi—"

"Shut up." The girls started to squabble when the elevator doors dinged.

"Shhh," Francie cut them off. "Someone's coming. You don't want to look immature in front of an older man."

Tiffany, who had thus far had not been eager to follow her new nanny's instructions, quickly went back to pretending to sort the mail. Francie recognized that move when she saw it. She'd perfected it in high school sophomore year when she was at her locker, desperately acting like she didn't notice—

She inhaled sharply when two people emerged from the elevator. "Tristan," she said under her breath as the tall blond walked toward them with a young woman with dark red hair.

Danielle looked up at her in wonder. "I didn't tell you his name. How did you know?"

Francie's cheeks warmed and her palms were suddenly clammy. Where was her locker when she needed to appear indifferent? She turned to the mail boxes and grabbed what Tiffany had in her hand. "Did you get anything good?"

"Hey!"

She grabbed the girl's wrist. "We should get back inside."

"But you wanted to see the hot guy too," Tiffany hissed back.

"I saw. Now we can go."

It was too late. Tristan Dugray stopped at the mailboxes with his apparent significant other. "Hi," he said to Danielle, who was staring up at him dreamily.

"Hi." A bit more formal, she added, "Hello Rosemary."

The woman tossed her a glance. "Hi." She did a double take at the sight of an unfamiliar adult. "New nanny?"

"Mm-hmm. Francine, but she goes by Francie." She turned to her care taker. "Right?"

Francie saw Tristan turn to her out of the corner of her eye. There was no escape, she had to look up. Slowly, heart pounding, she did. He set his jaw and his eyes hardened. He shifted his weight to the other foot and crossed his arms.

"Right," she finally answered. She nodded. "Tristan."

Tiffany and Rosemary both stopped the mail pilfering to look at Francie. "Do you know each other?" Rosemary asked.

For a beat, neither answered.

"Chilton," Tristan said, finding his voice. "Same class."

"Oh, you went there too?" she asked Francie. "Were you friends?"

"I'm not sure I'd call it that," Francie said.

At the same time, Tristan flat-out said, "No."

Rosemary looked from her fiancée to Francie, noticing the tension. "So you dated then."

"Yup," Tristan said, not bothering to lie.

Tiffany and Danielle, who'd been quietly drinking in the conversation, looked to Francie with awe.

Rosemary laughed. "Big surprise there. Didn't you date all the girls at that school—except Rory Gilmore?"

Tristan smiled tightly. "Pretty much." With steely eyes trained on Francie, he continued, "To the point the word girlfriend has no meaning."

Francie crossed her arms to mirror him, not wanting to give him the pleasure of knowing his aim to sting hit the target—but probably failing.

Rosemary rolled her eyes. "You were just like Logan in school."

Francie remembered that name, and would have argued on instinct, but instead said, "It's uncanny." She added, "Sparking Tristan's attention was the easy part for a girl."

Smiling up at him, Rosemary said, "I guess it takes someone special to keep that attention, huh?"

Francie smirked slightly. Rosemary had just unknowingly backed Tristan into a corner.

He kept his lips sealed tight and avoided eye contact to grudgingly agree, "Mm-hmm."

Rosemary addressed Francie again, "Hey, I guess you know Rory too. I went to college with her, we ran in the same circle."

Francie was under the impression that particular former classmate was above running in any kind of circle. "Wow, small world. So you went to Yale then?"

Rosemary nodded. "I did, Tristan didn't. But I'm good friends with his cousin." She added, "We met at his sister's wedding."

Francie looked up at Tristan, forgetting to be hostile for the moment. "Guinevere got married?" She recalled his sister's frustration with her male peers. Girls could fall into the friend-zone too. Francie was happy to hear some guy realized Guinevere was, in fact, a girl.

Rosemary snorted. "No."

Tristan reluctantly contributed to the explanation, "She meant Logan's sister, not mine."

"Ah, your New York cousins," Francie said.

Rosemary chuckled softly. "New York cousins? Is that what you call them?" she asked Tristan. "I've never heard you call them that. That's cute." She frowned in thought. "How do you know Guinevere and his New York cousins?"

"I brought her to the Christmas party once," Tristan said, before Francie could answer. "So she met some of them."

"Oh. Well did you know Logan dated Rory in college? It's kind of hilarious they both went for the same girl." She considered Tristan. "Just think, if your parents hadn't shipped you off to military school, maybe you would have worn her down."

He shrugged. "We'll never know."

Rosemary told the younger girls, "Rory was kind of his what-if girl." Raising her eyes to the other redhead, she added, "I guess you knew that."

Francie scoffed, unable to keep it in. With Tristan's glare on her, she said, "It's just funny, because he looked like such an idiot when he was trying to date her. What was it you said to her right before you left?" she asked, feigning ignorance and curiosity. "I heard all about it the next day—you wanted to kiss her goodbye and she could slap you after, if she wanted?"

He scowled again and Francie was delighted to see him blush. "I didn't say that," he said defensively. "Her boyfriend was there, watching me like a hawk."

"Hmm, that is so strange. That must have been someone else's line. Tell me, did _Rory_ write you any letters after you left?" She smiled as she said it, hoping to pull off lighthearted teasing. It was making him mad. Good. Deciding this little reunion was over, Francie told the girls, "We should get back inside, you have homework to do." She gestured for the girls to follow her down the hall to their apartment, Tiffany muttering about hating summer school.

"You dated Tristan?" Danielle asked in disbelief when the door was closed behind them.

"Get started on your homework."

"We want the details," Tiffany protested.

Francie put her hands on her hips. "We dated when we were young. Then we broke up."

Tiffany scowled. "That's it?"

"Yup."

The girl roughly opened her school book and flipped through the pages. She muttered, "You were probably dumb enough to break up with _him_."

Francie just looked at her grimly, not bothering to indulge them with the specifics.

XXX

The next day, Guinevere was resting her cheek on her fist from her place at Rosemary's table. She and Rosemary had returned from their shopping trip by mid-afternoon, the latter dropping Guinevere off before running to an appointment at the salon. She wouldn't be too long, she was only getting a trim. She didn't want her hair too short for the wedding.

"Now was that so bad?" her brother asked.

"Kind of. I had to try on at least fifteen dresses at five different stores. And I still need shoes—that's always the worst part. Rosemary said a pair of nude sling backs would go with it. Tristan," she said seriously, "I don't know what the hell sling backs are, but they don't sound like something I want to wear on my feet."

"It's just for one day," Tristan reminded her. Across from her, he picked up the black garment bag she'd draped over the back of one of the chairs and he tugged on the zipper. "Can I see it?"

She shrugged. "I'm not the bride."

He unzipped the bag to reveal a cocktail length navy dress with capped sleeves. "It looks nice."

"That was a Rosemary-approved color. It won't clash with the bridesmaids," Guinevere said. "Did you see the size?"

He glanced at the number on the tag. "What about it?"

"I always considered myself thinner," she said.

"You aren't fat."

She gave him a look. "I didn't say I was. I just thought I would need a smaller number. But I'd try a dress and had to keep asking for another size up."

Tristan zipped the garment bag and hung it on the chair again. "Maybe the airport and stadium food caught up to you."

"I guess."

"Did you and Rosemary get to talk?"

She shrugged again. "Sure, she talked about what she does and my eyes glazed over. I talked about what I do and her eyes glazed over. Then I shared no more than two mildly embarrassing childhood stories about you," Guinevere said. "So I think that counts as a successful bonding experience."

"Good."

"She has that shopping gene that makes it easy and enjoyable for her. She knows how to put together a coordinating outfit for the office and then change the jacket and lip gloss to make it a whole new outfit for girls' night."

"She does know her way around a retail establishment." Tristan went to the kitchen to pour them each a glass of water and then led her into the living room, where she plopped down on the couch.

Guinevere glanced at an engagement photo of her brother and Rosemary on the end table next to her. She ran her middle finger along the table and lifted it closer to her eyes for examination. It was completely clean. She muttered, "I wish I had someone to dust."

"Hire someone," Tristan said.

"Do you know what I do for a living?"

"You'll have more funds next year."

He was referring to her windfall, which they were not to speak of. She'd have access to it in a year. Her first priority was to pay off what she still owed from grad school. She hated being in debt to lenders, but life was expensive and her income was limited. "I don't think that's the intended purpose," she said.

"Maybe Mitchum could send a company-paid cleaning lady over to your apartment. It'd probably only take an hour to tidy up your place."

"Probably, except my lease is up at the end of the month and I'm not renewing it."

"Did he buy you a penthouse?" Tristan asked eagerly.

"No, and shut up. The company pays my travel expenses. There's no reason for him to provide my housing. Unlike the _other_ family member he's employed, I don't require incentives to grow up." She looked at the ice in her glass and said, "I have some news."

"You're moving."

She nodded and looked up from her glass. "I quit my job too."

He stared. "You quit _Slate_?"

"Yup, I put in my two weeks about a week ago. I took a job as news editor at the _Forestbrook Sun-Times_."

"Where the hell is Forestbrook?"

"South Carolina," she said. "You can find it on Google maps if you zoom in." She quickly took a drink of water. "It isn't too far from Myrtle Beach."

"Does Mitchum own this paper, by chance?"

"He does."

"Then I think he does owe you a penthouse and cleaning lady if he's sending you to the Deep South."

Guinevere shook her head. "He didn't send me. He doesn't even know—at least, I haven't told him. I'm going voluntarily."

"Why?"

She sighed heavily and tilted her head. "I've visited half the papers, and I asked the editors about job openings. This one came up. Well, this and a staff reporter job in Seattle."

"And you passed on the major city because . . . ?"

"Because it's just another reporting job. I don't want to make a linear move."

"Wow," he commented. "30 must be hitting you hard."

She looked at him ruefully. " _No_ , I was thinking someone in the family should work for the company. We aren't the Bancroft's yet."

"Logan was on the pay-roll."

"Yes. He was acquiring companies," she said. "He wasn't working to get his copy in by deadline. He's never answered to an editor in the real world. This is a newspaper company. Mitchum was the last Huntzberger to work on the editorial side, and it was so long ago it was still The Herald-Tribune Company."

Ah, The Herald-Tribune Company, named for their flagship, _The New York Herald-Tribune_. All the great newspaper families had one. The two papers were originally separate entities, until the owner of one married the publisher's daughter of the other. Or maybe the marriage was part of the merger deal. It depended on how romantic or realistic the story teller was. Either way, the family's relationship with the newspaper was a symbiotic one, each facilitating the other's rise to prominence in the 20th century.

And like the average great newspaper family, it caused friction through the generations.

"Okay," Tristan said. "But you've worked in newsrooms most of your life."

"I know. But the family justifies owning all these small town papers by claiming there's a sense of community. How can we say that when we're sitting in offices in New York and London?" she asked rhetorically. "We don't know anything about the communities our papers serve." She continued, "I'd have to go to work for Mitchum eventually. It's a bit of a conflict to climb the Huntzberger ladder while working for the Graham's, don't you think?"

"I guess." A smile slowly crept over Tristan's face. "You won't be eligible for press credentials. _You_ , without a press pass."

"I realize that," she said. "Publishers aren't eligible either, so I might as well get used to it."

He didn't respond to this. He asked, "Have you told Mom and Dad?"

She sat her glass down on a coaster. "I told them I was going to take a job in the company when one opened up. They didn't say too much, because that's the alternate reality we are living in now." By and large they were supportive of her career decisions. They could also be discouraging at times. "It took Mom over 50 years, but she's finally conformed to the repression of polite society," Guinevere said, crossing her arms with a frown. "Who would have thought _this_ , of all things, would be the trigger?"

Tristan shrugged. "I don't know. She's a mysterious woman."

They were silent for a few minutes. Then Guinevere said, "I saw a tennis court when we drove up. Does Rosemary have rackets?"

"In the closet," he said, nodding over to a door where the living room met the hallway.

She grinned. "Can we go out and play?" she asked hopefully. Her younger brother was not always interested in playing with such mediocre competition.

"Sure, come on," he said, making her smile wider.

She followed him out the apartment and down the hall to the elevator, where someone was already waiting. Guinevere kept walking, but Tristan slowed down. When she reached the woman, who had short curly red hair and a messenger bag hanging from her shoulder, she did a double take. "Hello," she said slowly.

Francie looked over at her. "Oh, Guinevere, hi."

Guinevere was momentarily dumbstruck. She looked over at Tristan, whose lips were pressed together in a line. "Francie is the neighbor's nanny," he explained.

"Ah."

"You know, we could just take the sta—"

The elevator dinged and the doors opened. Both girls walked in and turned. Tristan sighed in resignation and joined them. It was a quiet descent, and not the comfortable kind. Guinevere could practically smell the elephant in the room. She asked the redhead, "You live in Boston now?"

Francie glanced over and nodded. "For grad school—at Boston College."

Guinevere tipped her head back to nod once. "I finished J-school a couple years ago, went ahead and got it over with."

Next to her, Tristan cleared his throat, a bit pointedly.

When she gave her brother a strange look, Francie said, "He'd rather you not talk to me."

Guinevere smirked up at her brother. "Really? That would be rude. You have an obligation to be polite to people you know."

" _Used_ to know," Tristan corrected. "I haven't known in a long time. And I can make an exception for someone who dumped me."

The elevator dinged again and let them out. France glared at Tristan and said, "Oh sure, I dumped you. We can go with that." She walked away without another word, heading for her car.

Guinevere was openly smiling at Tristan now, giddy from the live drama. "What was that?"

"Nothing, let's go before I change my mind."


	2. 3-2

**Red**

Tristan pulled into a spot at Rosemary's apartment building and they both got out, just getting back from breakfast. It was a beautiful Saturday morning, and he was in Boston again. It was practical for him to come to her, since the wedding would be here. It was more convenient to be in the same location.

As they walked toward the building, he was disheartened to see Francie. Was she going to be around all the time now? At least she wasn't alone, but with her two charges and an older man. The young girls were wide eyed with excitement. Francie was on her cellphone, and passed it over to the man, who stepped aside for the conversation. "Your mom says it's okay." She looked at the girls, adding, "You can spend the whole day with your dad."

The girls both smiled, and the smaller one asked, "What about the zoo?"

"I'll just stay in today."

"But we have the tickets." The older girl pointed at the couple passing by. "How about Tristan and Rosemary? Maybe they will go with you."

He stopped when he heard his name and looked at the group now that he was a part of the conversation.

Francie glanced at him and warily back to the girl. "I'm sure they're busy today."

Ignoring her nanny, the girl asked Tristan, "Do you want to go to the zoo? Francie has two extra tickets. You guys should go with her, since you're old school friends."

"Uh," he said hesitantly, noting the evil glint in the girl's eye.

"Ooh, I haven't been to the zoo in forever," Rosemary said. "Let's go."

"What?" Tristan asked.

"Let's go to the zoo. It's a nice day, it will be fun—just for a few hours." This was a horrible idea, but Rosemary looked determined. "We could use a break from wedding plans," she said, pouting. "Come on, please?"

He really didn't want to go.

She stopped pouting at him so she could ask, "When did you and Francie date?"

Slowly, and without elaborating, he answered, "Freshman year." He avoided eye contact with the girl in question.

"That was ages ago," Rosemary said. "We're all adults now. She could tell you where all your Chilton friends ended up."

That wasn't as enticing as she thought it was. But with a sigh of resignation, he said, "Fine."

She smiled happily. "Good, we can take my car. There's more room in the backseat," she added, glancing at Francie.

Tristan drove, quickly turning the radio up loud enough to discourage conversation. Francie sat in the back, the third wheel in a surreal dream.

Unfortunately, Rosemary turned the radio down. "My mom is going dress shopping again today."

"I thought she already had one," Tristan said.

"She does, but she wants to see what else is out there. I'll let your mom know if she needs to make any changes."

It wouldn't be the first time. He muttered, "She won't like that."

Francie asked, "When's the big day?"

"Two months from last week Saturday," Rosemary said. Then she launched into the details—location, colors, flowers, wedding party, dinner menu. The rest of the ride passed by this way, Tristan turning the radio back up as soon as there was a lull in the wedding chatter.

They had no sooner arrived at the zoo and gotten out of the car when Rosemary's phone started ringing. She pulled it out of her purse and answered. Tristan and Francie both stood to the side, awkwardly waiting.

"Oh my gosh, I'm sorry," Rosemary said with a frown. "I must have forgotten to write it down. Sit tight, I'll be right there." She put the phone away and looked up at Tristan. "It's Juliet, she's getting her dress fitted. She think she gained three pounds and won't fit into her dress and will ruin the whole wedding. I need to go over there and hold her hand."

"I'm sure she's worried about nothing." And there was no way Juliet had gained an ounce. Tristan never saw her eat.

"I know, I just need to run over there quick, for moral support. I'll be thirty minutes, an hour tops. You won't even know I'm gone." She held her hand out for the keys.

Tristan flailed for a moment. He didn't want to be here with Francie at all, much less be left alone with her. "You're going to leave me here with an ex-girlfriend, and right before our wedding? Doesn't that seem a little contrived?"

"Tristan, we've run into at least four of your high school girlfriends in Hartford and it was fine." Rosemary glanced at Francie. "You won't run off with him in the next hour will you?"

Francie shook her head. "That's highly unlikely."

Rosemary turned back to Tristan. "So I don't have anything to worry about, unless there's some reason I should?"

He shook his head slowly. "Nope, no reason."

"So it's fine. I'd be more worried if you didn't date her but wanted to. It's like how they don't let attempted murderers out of prison because they might finish the job if they get out."

That could happen here, too. He was struck with a twinge of guilt. She thought an amusing story about his cousin's girlfriend meant more than it did. He should clear that up someday—later, when they could laugh about it.

She took the keys from him and gave him a peck on the cheek. "I'll be back before you get to the giraffes." She smiled at Francie. "I love the giraffes."

"Who doesn't?"

Tristan and Francie watched her go before they stood in silence for a minute. They were officially stranded together. Flatly, he asked, "What do you want to do?"

She held up the tickets. "I guess we're going to the zoo."

He sighed in resignation and headed toward the entrance. When they were inside the grounds, they looked at a wooden sign with arrows directing the zoo goers to the different animals. "Let's go this way," she said, pointing toward the exotic cats. Without talking much, they stopped to look at a leopard, and then a few lionesses.

"Simba, you are more than you have become," Tristan said to a full grown lion, in the deepest voice he could muster.

The corner of Francie's mouth twitched and she laughed softly. She moved on, leaving Tristan to follow. When he did, he leaned over the railing and looked down into the enclosed space and saw a sleek black jaguar. "Oh, I want one of those for a pet," he said. "Look at him, he's awesome. And he's just a big cat, no one would notice."

"He will eat you," she said.

"Not if I get him as a kitten and domesticate him." Tristan looked back at the jaguar again as the cat stepped into a shallow pool of water, slowly walking across to the other side. The little kids next to them stretched their arms out of their strollers to point as their parents snapped photos.

"You'll be the only one in your neighborhood with an actual jag, and not mean a car." Then she asked, "Are you living in Boston after you get married?"

"We haven't fully decided yet," he said. "Rosemary has talked about moving to New York. It's fun for a day, but I don't really want to live there."

"You'd be near your sister though."

"That would be cool," he admitted. "Except she just moved to South Carolina."

"Why?"

"She took a new job working for our uncle. She thought someone in the family should work at one of the papers."

"What about Logan?" Francie asked. "Shouldn't he be the one to do that?"

Tristan stepped away from the fence and headed for the next sanctuary. "He quit the company last year and moved to California."

Francie let that sink in for a moment. "He quit? But he's the dauphin."

"Yeah."

"And now he's not? I thought there wasn't a backup plan."

"There wasn't," Tristan said. "And Guinevere, I don't know, I think she's going through some kind of mid-life crisis or something. She wants to move up and saw an opportunity. All she had to do was become a Huntzberger."

"But she was at the bottom of the list," Francie argued, walking beside him.

"She showed some interest after Logan left. And I guess it worked, because Mitchum asked her to take meetings with him."

"So she's the dauphine now, that's good," Francie said, as though that was that.

Tristan didn't say anything at first. He shrugged. "If you trust Mitchum." His uncle was several years away from retirement, plenty could happen before then. "I haven't heard from her since she moved this week. I wonder see how she's doing," he said.

"Call her," Francie said.

He pulled out his phone. On the other end of the line, his sister answered. "Hey, how's it going?" he asked. Francie took the lead, and he followed her to the bird sanctuaries.

"Eh, it's going," Guinevere said, lackluster.

"Getting off to a rough start?"

"Not with everyone. I have good rapport with the managing editor. The reporters aren't sure I know anything about journalism, but don't want to openly voice their doubts. And then there's the guy under me, the assistant news editor."

"There's a guy under you? Congratulations."

"Funny." Guinevere continued, "He's worked here for most of his career, which includes serving as assistant news editor for the last seven years. He was interested in moving up, and everyone assumed he would—"

"But then the publisher's niece rolled into town and took his job out from under him."

"Yup."

"So you two are best friends."

"Naturally. At least I understand why he'd being passive aggressive towards me," she said. "As a small town newspaper editor, I really should know every policeman and every policeman's mistress. He does, and I don't. I can see how he'd feel entitled to the job."

"Explain how nepotism works."

"That lesson has actually been delivered already," she said. "There's just a general confusion over why I'm here. I wasn't expecting a parade or a red carpet welcome. But I did think it'd be a relief that I care about news, you know, since the last guy didn't. Instead, I'm making everyone nervous."

"Maybe they think you're Mitchum's spy."

"That'll be cleared up when he drops by next week. I am just a Connecticut Yankee in King Mitchum's court," Guinevere said. "I've been thinking. There's really no reason for him to fly all the way down here to oversee operations now that I'm here to do it," she said. "I've got this."

"I'm sure he'll be happy to hear it," Tristan said. Either that, or a little part of Mitchum will die inside, knowing he'll have less of a reason to let Logan back in if the opportunity should ever arise. It would be far from impossible, but he might at least give pause. "Have you found a place to live?"

She sighed. "No, there aren't apartments on every block. I'm staying in the one hotel this town has. I thought I was taking a step forward in my life, but so far it feels a lot like the last six years of living in crappy hotels."

"Minus the constant hassle of airports."

"Silver lining," she said.

"So you're a little homeless and no one trusts you or thinks you know anything about newspapers. You'll overcome."

"Yeah, eventually. I hope." She asked, "Hey, are you going to be in New York any time soon?"

"I wasn't planning on it, why?"

"I haven't had black and white cookies in over a year, but right now it's all I can think about. Could you hook me up?"

"Find a place to live and I'll have some shipped to you." He ended the call and pocketed his phone. He glanced at Francie. "She'll be okay, once she gets settled."

"Your mom must be happy the turn of events."

He shrugged again. "Mom hasn't said much." No one had. It was strange for the family to keep quiet. He wished there was something he could do, he wanted to be there for his sister, no matter how things turned out in the end. Politely, he asked, "How are you parents?"

"They're fine, good. The same. My sister's at Trinity."

He nodded once. "Your mom must be happy you're at a Jesuit school."

"Yeah, she didn't have any complaints," Francie said. "Do your parents still work together?"

"No. Dad is planning to retire this year, and Mom—they let her go."

"She got fired?" Francie asked, incredulous.

"Well, she won a Pulitzer last year so her bosses said it was a conflict of interest to write, even though the article wasn't about finance. Mom thinks it's because she was asking upper management too many questions." Tristan added, "It was probably a combination of the two." His mother _did_ freelance write about finance. She lasted longer in private equity than anyone thought she would. That was Caroline Dugray for you. She didn't move up, she just moved on. "She teaches communications at Wesleyan now," he said.

"I applied there," Francie said, then shook her head. "Did not attend."

"Too close to home?" he asked.

"Way too close. A hundred miles from home really is the perfect distance for college." She said, "I never told you before, but when we were freshman and I didn't know what I wanted to be when I grew up, I decided I wanted to be like your mom."

"Bitter?"

"Rich."

He tilted his head back in a single nod. "Ah." He opened the door of a building for in her to go first. Being the monkey house, it did not smell great.

"I tried majoring in finance for a semester, but I didn't like it," she said. "I kind of hated it."

"What are you going to do instead?" he asked, stopping too look at a chimp.

"I'd like to get a job as a college advisor, or a guidance counselor at a high school."

Tristan snorted. He couldn't help it. It was ludicrous.

"Is something funny?"

"Kind of. You think you're qualified to give young people advice about anything?"

She narrowed her eyes at him. "I've been young and confused and unsure about what I want to do," she said with an edge in her voice. "And I'm a good listener, so yes. I do think I'd be good at it."

"Using your powers for good instead of evil," he said, trying to sound less harsh.

"I'm going to try."

They continued to wind their way through the zoo, stopping for a moment at each animal, sometimes making comment and other times moving along in silence. At one of the sanctuaries, Francie held her hand up to shield her eyes. "I want one of those," she said, pointing to the grizzly bears with a smile. "A baby one, like a teddy bear."

"Your teddy bear will eat you before my jaguar eats me."

"I should have become a zoologist," she said. "Their job is way more exciting than mine."

"Your job isn't that different, you're a nanny," he said. "You're responsible for someone's life."

She grinned. "Yeah, but the animals are much cuter. And they don't talk back." She looked at the bears again. "If you hadn't noticed, the girls I nanny for are in love with you. They come up with excuses to be in the hallway when they know you're going to pass by. When you tell them hi, it makes their day."

"I could personalize it, if you think they'd like that."

"It would make their life. The older girl is Tiffany and the younger one is Daniel."

Tristan nodded, making a mental note. "Oh, that reminds me. There were a couple girls at college who had posters of Audrey Hepburn in their dorm rooms."

Francie looked up at him. "From _Breakfast at Tiffany's_?"

"Yeah. I had to ask them why they liked the movie," he said. "Reasons included 'it's a classic' and 'because of Audrey Hepburn.'" He shook his head. "They didn't know why they liked it."

"But they're supposed to, because everyone else does."

"Right. So I found the book at the library," he continued. "It's a lot better than the movie—it always is. The story gets lost in the movie. The end is sad but also beautiful." It seemed like a paradox, but as his grandfather had said, something could be sad and beautiful at the same time. "You should read it. You might like the movie more."

She was looking at him a bit strangely, but only said, "Okay. I'll do that."

He glanced around at all the caged animals. "Coincidentally, Holly Golightly hates zoos."

When they got to the top of a large hill and stopped at another sign at a fork in the road, they picked a side and Francie asked, "Does this zoo have elephants?"

Tristan answered, "I hope not. My mom always says you can't trust sick elephants."

She frowned curiously. "What?"

"You can't trust sick elephants. They're only being nice because they want something from you."

She blinked. "Ah. Sycophants."

He grinned a little. "Yeah. For the longest time, I thought she was saying sick elephants." He shook his head. "She _hates_ sick elephants. I never questioned it either."

Francie chuckled softy. "Why would you? It makes perfect sense."

He glanced at her. "Really?"

"Absolutely. They're suck ups. And elephants suck things up with their trunks," she said.

He held out a hand, smiling. "Yes. See? It totally makes sense." Crap, now they were seeing eye to eye. That's how it started. By the end of the day he'd be thinking she isn't so bad and they can try again. He was susceptible to falling into that trap. No he wouldn't, he reminded himself. He was still mad at her. A bonding experience wouldn't change that. Not this time.

Plus, there was Rosemary, who he was marrying soon.

Francie sobered then. "Your mom is right though. Sometimes people are nice and use you to get something. It's hard to know who to trust."

He gave her a sidelong glance, silently crossing his arms. He knew who she was talking about, and he knew she should have walked away from them. She could have, if she had wanted. He was the one she could have trusted, and she should have realized that, but she threw that away. He scoffed and shook his head.

"What?" she asked, a little impatient.

But Tristan only shook his head more. "Nothing," he answered, turning to move on.

XXX

Francie sat in the backseat of a cab later, next to Tristan. They'd made it through the zoo and Rosemary still had not returned. Not wanting to wait around, they called for another way back. As the scenery passed outside the window, Francie wondered why Tristan had been inquiring about _Breakfast at Tiffany's_ while he was in college. Did he think about her after he went away? She had thought about him, but not beyond high school. It was a conscious choice. And even in her wildest dreams, she never imagined meeting him again like this. It was supposed to be simpler.

 _Francie opened her locker and took a couple textbooks out of her bag. She put them away and replaced them with the ones she needed for her last few classes of the day. She closed her bag and focused on her image in a small square mirror on her locker door and brushed her bangs to the side._

 _She closed her locker door and glanced at the clock up on the wall. She still had three minutes. Not wanting to get to class earlier than necessary, she hugged her book to her chest and leaned a shoulder against her locker. Her gaze involuntarily roamed across the hall to the lockers on the other side. More specifically, it fell onto one that was closed, and appeared to be unoccupied. It used to be, for a short time. She fell into the habit of glancing over before she headed to class, just in case._

 _One day she glanced over and saw the locker door open. Someone was transferring books in and out. It was a guy. Without her permission, her feat started to approach the locker. He had a backpack, which should have been her first red flag. He didn't carry a backpack. When the door shut, it was with sick disappointment that Francie saw Brad Langford swing his book bag over his shoulder and turn to go to class, not noticing Francie approach him. Her heart pounded in his wake, and she'd felt shaken. It'd taken her half of the next class to calm down. It wasn't Brad's locker, she thought bitterly. It shouldn't have been reassigned, but remain empty—a symbol of the void left in his wake. Chilton wasn't the same without him. Everyone had to feel it, he'd left a gaping hole at the school that no one else could fill._

 _Francie's eyes continued to the end of the hall. She'd always felt so sure Tristan would come around the corner one day. He'd just saunter down the hall, like he owned the place and had never been gone. She'd walk away from the Puffs this time. She didn't need them anymore, and it wasn't as though they liked her. She didn't blame them, she'd hated the last leader. Well, maybe they didn't hate Francie quite that much. She never gave them a reason to seek vengeance. But still, she knew they weren't real friends. It was lonely at the top._

 _She didn't fully trust them. She was sure one of them had plans to usurp her. She'd eye them suspiciously when they gathered as a group, trying to figure out which would be her Judas. Maybe she was just paranoid though. She may have told some white lies here and there, but she never backstabbed any of them._

 _In her more deluded fantasies, she imagined getting voted prom queen, and by some miracle, whereby Tristan's parents let him come back for a silly dance, he'd be her king. They'd dance in front of their classmates—who'd whisper to each other, wondering if they'd get back together. Maybe he'd miss her enough to forgive her and take her back._

 _She shook her head at herself and sighed. "Move on. It's not going to happen."_

 _It was Friday, and she didn't have any plans tonight. She could stay home and write a letter. One last letter, that would—like the others—never be mailed. It would go in a box hidden under her bed._

 _No, she thought. She'd burn them all. Then she wouldn't think about any of it ever again._

And for the most part, she hadn't. Francie figured Tristan would go to Princeton, or perhaps Yale, and she had little desire to go to either. She effectively snuffed out any flame that had lingered. She was probably being narcissistic, to think he'd ask other girls about _Breakfast at Tiffany's_ because of their prior conversation. It could have been out of sheer curiosity and not because she brought it up that day in New York.

Before long, they were back at the apartment complex. Francie handed over some cash for her half of the cab. They entered the building and got on the elevator in silence.

At their floor, the doors open and they got out. She felt like a moment was slipping through her fingers. They'd talked about their families, and touched on what she was doing. But she still didn't know anything about Tristan himself—other than his pending wedding.

Before he could disappear into Rosemary's apartment, Francie said, "You never said what you do now."

"Civil engineering, for the Army Corps of Engineers," he said. "I'm not going to work there forever, but that's where I am for now."

A small grin pulled at the corner of Francie's mouth. "You want to be a Dugray." She didn't wonder where he went to college now, she put all her bets on Princeton.

He tilted his head and lifted his shoulders. "I guess you could say that. Dad and Grandpa would be in Gryffindor. I want to get in too."

Francie couldn't hold back a burst of laughter and she smiled more openly. "That has to be the dorkiest thing I've ever heard you say." She quickly added, "But cute dorky. You're a Harry Potter fan now?"

"I read the books when I was in military school." They paused in the hallway. "My friends wanted to go see the second movie when it was in theaters. I went along and I had no idea what was going on. It drove me nuts, so I had to give in and read the books—also much better than the movies."

"It sounds like you found a different kind of crowd."

"The robotics team let me sit with them at lunch on my first day. When you're the new kid, you aren't too picky about who wants to be your friend." His tone shifted quickly to a less friendly one to add, "And you know those high school connections, they basically set you up for life."

She'd had enough of his digs for the day. "Okay, what? Are you really still mad at me?"

"Why would I be mad?" he asked, obviously passive aggressive.

"Because you apparently think I dumped you."

"You did. I guess I'm really mad at myself though. Like an idiot, I thought that summer meant something to you, but I was wrong."

"It did too. You know that summer wouldn't have happened if I didn't—." She trailed off. She crossed her arms and her eyes darted to the side. She looked back at him. "I admit, I regret how things ended, but we would have broken up eventually."

"You don't know that."

"I do too. We would have had to."

"Why?"

"Because otherwise I'd be one of those girls who follows her boyfriend to college."

"What's so wrong with that?"

Her jaw dropped slightly. "I needed to go out and figure out who I wanted to be—outside of the Puffs, and on my own. Look at me, I can't wear orange with my hair and complexion." He didn't look amused. "And you can have any girl you want. You'd have gotten bored with me."

Tristan shook his head in angry disagreement. "You don't know that. I was with you longer than any of those other girls. I wouldn't have strayed, no matter what _other_ people may have told you."

"It doesn't matter now," she said. "The current situation would not be different."

"Stop making these sweeping declarations, like you have any idea. You don't know what would have happened, or how things could be."

Francie couldn't believe him. He could not be serious. But judging by his angry glare, there was every reason to think he was. Exasperated, she asked, "It's been—how many years? Six, at least. And you're getting married in two months. Why are you still mad at me?"

His scowl was still firmly in place, but he couldn't come up with anything reasonable to say. There was no excuse for his anger at this point in his life.

"You're getting married," she reminded him one more time. "You don't have to deal with me ever again. You should feel nothing but happiness about that. I don't understand why you don't." She shook her head. "We won't bump into each other anymore. Have a good life." She turned then, disappearing inside her employer's apartment.


	3. 3-3

Caroline Dugray was at the dining room table, making a note on an assignment before consulting her rubric. She wrote a C+ at the top of the page and hoped she wouldn't hear from the student's parent.

She moved on to the next paper on her stack when she was interrupted by the phone. "Hello?" she answered. "Mm-hmm, mm-hmm. I see." When the call ended, she sighed. "If that girl asks me to find a different dress one more time, I swear I will show up in white."

Caroline abandoned her grading and went upstairs to the master bedroom. Her husband was lying on the bed with an arm draped over his eyes, practicing for retirement. She went to her closet and pulled out a lilac dress that was protected by a clear plastic garment bag. She sighed at it grimly as she tossed it on her side of the bed, unsure if she should return it or save it for another occasion. There would be other weddings, and for a mother-of-the-groom dress, it wasn't too flashy. She turned back to the closet and slowly went through her formal gowns, trying to recall the last time she wore each. If she could get out of dress shopping again, she would.

She quickly passed up three dresses in a row, and stopped at a navy one. The sleeves were three-quarter length and the neckline dipped down into a deep V. She turned to the bed, and held the dress up. "Can you remember the last time I wore this?"

Alex peaked out from under his arm. He paused in thought. "No."

She looked at it with a frown. "I was in a few pictures, that's the only problem." She still sat it to the side as a possibility.

"What do you need it for?"

"Tristan's wadding."

"What's wrong with one you already bought?" he asked.

"Nothing, but Rosemary's mother kept shopping until she found the perfect dress, which happened to be the same color as mine." The woman had too much time on her hands. "The mother-of-the-bride gets top billing, so I have to find a different one. Again."

Alex pointed to the navy dress she'd put aside. "That one doesn't look very mother-of-the-groom like."

"That's because aunt-of-the-bride dresses tend to be more subtle."

"Honor's wedding," he said with a nod. After thinking a moment he added, "So we've come full circle."

"I guess so."

 _Caroline took a sip of her scotch and looked around at the pods of people talking in the ballroom. Not seeing anyone she had to talk to, she headed back to their table. It was fairly close to that of the bridal party, as were all the family of the newlyweds. She went over to her seat, two away from her son, whom she asked, "Do you have the time?"_

 _"Five-thirty," Tristan answered with a glance at his watch._

 _Another thirty minutes before dinner. "We should be mingling, shouldn't we?"_

 _"Probably," he said. Neither of them moved. Instead, Tristan took a drink of whatever was in his tumbler. Caroline couldn't believe her youngest child was old enough to partake of the open bar. Then again, she couldn't believe she was that age when she was making major life choices. Her eyes wandered until she found her husband. Alexander Dugray was as good and honorable as he'd been when she married him._

 _Still, from this side of the age spectrum, 21 was so young._

 _Tristan took another drink and almost jumped a moment later when the seat beside his was suddenly occupied by a young woman. She had auburn hair and was wearing a red cocktail dress with capped sleeves._

 _Her son frowned at the girl, as she was ducking at his side. "Can I help you?" he asked._

 _The redhead glanced up and did a double take at the sight of him. "Sorry. I'm just—well—hiding."_

 _"The 'ambassador' of Luxembourg?" he asked._

 _"No, I was just trying to get away from a friend, Finn. He's trying to get me to go home with him—as usual. Logan had an emergency and I think Colin just got cornered by one of Honor's bridesmaids, so no one is around to occupy Finn."_

 _Caroline rolled her eyes. She'd run away too, if being pursued by the Australian. Why did Logan constantly surround himself with those two idiots? He was so needy._

 _Tristan nodded, his interest tampered slightly. "Are you in the Life and Death Brigade with them?" he asked, almost flat._

 _"Oh no, I'm not in that secret society, or any other."_

 _For whatever reason, that seemed to sit well with him. "You can stay here for a while if you want."_

 _"Thanks," she said with a smile. The redhead sat up straight and took a better look at Tristan. She held out her hand. "I don't think we've met. I'm Rosemary Endicott."_

 _And she clearly liked what she saw, Caroline could tell. It was the same when Mitchum came to visit her at Sarah Lawrence. Girls just gravitated to him. It was uncanny._

 _"Hi," he said, taking her offered hand to shake. "Tristan Dugray, Logan's cousin."_

 _"Oh," she said. "I should have known. You look like a Huntzberger."_

 _Caroline hoped the similarities stopped there. She didn't have much interest in watching her son flirt today any more than she had her brother in the 70's, so she got back up to mix with the other guests. After a trip to the restroom and then to the bar to freshen her scotch, she found her daughter with a great-aunt. Caroline joined them in time to hear the old woman pat Guinevere on the hand sympathetically. "There's still time for you. Don't worry." The aunt departed, Guinevere's mouth open as though to respond._

 _"That's the second person to give me their condolences today," Guinevere said. "And both times it was after I said I'm finishing J-school this semester. Doesn't that count for anything?"_

 _Carline patted her daughter's hand the same way the aunt had and nicely said, "No. Nobody cares." She would know. The school and degree was different, but the response was about the same. "You go to school for two years and keep your job, and they just want to coo over your new baby."_

 _Guinevere smirked and took a sip of her cocktail. "Sorry for stealing your thunder." She glanced over to their table, her brows knitting together when she saw her seat occupied by a redhead. Logan was standing with them, but was looking around at the guests, concern etched on his face._

 _When Tristan picked up his tumbler a few minutes later and headed for the bar, Guinevere flagged him over. When he joined them, she asked, "Who's the girl in my seat?"_

 _"Rosemary," he answered. "A friend of Logan's."_

 _Guinevere's upper lip lifted, unimpressed. At least it wasn't Walker, Caroline thought. The girl looked like she was already three sheets to the wind when she walked down the aisle and was on the prowl tonight. Oh, that explained Colin._

 _"She's hiding from Finn. Did you hear the news about Logan?" He looked from one woman to the other._

 _"Yes," Caroline said. "But I don't know why anyone is surprised he blew off meetings. I'd be more surprised if he went." She added, "Mitchum is sending him to London the day after graduation. I'm sure kicking and screaming will be involved."_

 _"Not that news. Get this," Tristan said, lowering his voice so his sister would have to lean in closer to hear, which she did without hesitation. "Logan is living with a girl."_

 _"How far along is she?" Guinevere asked. "He'll have to marry her."_

 _Caroline nodded, adding, "Elias draws the line at illegitimate successors. You wouldn't guess it, but he does have some standards for his male progenies." After a pause, she said, "Actually, no. That's the only one."_

 _Tristan shook his head. "She isn't pregnant. Shira and Grandpa don't want her to be a Huntzberger anyway."_

 _Leave it to those two to think anyone_ wants _to be._

 _"Magog isn't going to settle for one girl for the rest of his life—that he met in college," Guinevere said._

 _Caroline added, "It can't be that serious, he didn't bring anyone to the Christmas party. He was busy cozying up with one of Honor's friends."_

 _Tristan just shrugged, not having an answer to that mystery._

 _Guinevere scanned the room. "Who's the girl?"_

 _"I already told you, her name is Rosemary," he said, glancing back at their table to make sure his new friend hadn't left during his prolonged absence._

 _"Not that girl. Logan's girlfriend, do we know her?"_

 _"Oh, her, yeah. Rory Gilmore. I went to Chilton with a Rory Gilmore, and Logan said that's where she went, but it doesn't sound like the same person."_

 _Guinevere narrowed her eyes. "Why does that name sound vaguely familiar?"_

 _Wryly, he said, "Maybe you read it on_ IvyGate _last year. There was an incident with a yacht."_

 _A smile crept over Guinevere's face. "That's it. But I didn't just read about it." The founder of the Ivy League gossip site went to J-school at Columbia and worked at_ Slate _. As did Guinevere._

 _Caroline eyed her daughter warily. "Don't pat yourself on the back. Logan being Logan isn't exactly groundbreaking news."_

 _Tristan said, "Actually, they went on a joyride after Mitchum was a jerk to her at an internship."_

 _Caroline's tumbler stopped before it reached her lips. She frowned and asked, "What internship?"_

 _"At one of his papers." He took a slow drink, watching Caroline intently. She knew that smug, satisfied look he was giving her, she invented it. Her son was about to say something provocative and wanted to see her reaction. "She wants to be a journalist."_

 _Her frown deepened. She was silent for a prolonged minute. "Logan's girlfriend wants to be a journalist?"_

 _He shrugged. "That's what they say. She and Logan work at the school paper together."_

 _"Six of those words are a lie," Caroline said._

 _"Did he promise her a job?" Guinevere asked. "That seems desperate. He'll really do anything to get his dick wet, won't he?"_

 _Caroline asked, "Why wasn't she at the party in December?" That party was not to be missed for anyone who wanted to break into the business._

 _"I don't know," Tristan answered._

 _"You're kind of sketchy on the specifics," Guinevere said._

 _"Maybe if you'd give me longer than 10 minutes with my source, I could get more," he said. "His girlfriend is here somewhere, ask her your questions yourself." He must have been finished talking about his cousin, because he left them, returning to their table._

 _"He's just going back to flirt," Guinevere said, looking over at the redhead._

 _Caroline glanced around the ballroom, looking for a tall blond man. "Where's Mitchum?" Spotting her brother with his wife, she made a beeline towards them, Guinevere following._

 _"Caroline," Shira said, smile frozen in place. She addressed her niece, "Guinevere, there you are. There are a couple men I'd love to introduce you to since another cousin has passed you up. At this rate, Tristan will too."_

 _"I'll be okay," Guinevere said. "I'm only 28." That received a sympathetic cringe from her aunt._

 _Caroline asked, "Is it true Logan's girlfriend wants to be a journalist?"_

 _"She does," Shira said, slightly tense. "Surely you've heard Emily talk about how her granddaughter plans to travel the world."_

 _Caroline frowned. "Emily who?"_

 _"Gilmore."_

 _Her brow lifted, uninspired. "As in Richard Gilmore?"_

 _"Yes." Shira's eyes darted around. "They're from Hartford, you know them."_

 _Of course Caroline knew the Gilmore's. It was through the Dugray's that her family came into their acquaintance in the first place. She knew about Richard's teenage daughter with the baby. It had not occurred to her that the baby would be grown up by now._

 _"They're about to make toasts. I'll meet you back at our table," Mitchum told Shira, to which she brightened and made her escape._

 _Caroline turned her frown to her younger brother, not finished with him yet. "How could you let Logan date that girl?"_

 _"He doesn't exactly care what I think, if you hadn't noticed," Mitchum said._

 _"This is different. Haven't you warned him about this? He can't trust anyone he wants—aspiring reporters especially." She'd had that talk with her own children._

 _"Careful, Caroline, it almost sounds like you care about Logan," he said, an edge in his voice._

 _She didn't acknowledge that one way or another, looking around at the guests. "Is Ms. Gilmore here? I want to have a little chat with her—one newspaper woman to another."_

 _Mitchum glanced around and then back to his sister. "Do it at your own risk. Richard thinks she's the next Ben Bradlee."_

 _She gave him her full attention. "There is one Ben Bradlee and there will never be another." Not that she had always held that view. Back when she was young and stupid, she thought Mitchum could be the next Ben Bradlee, the great editor of a major newspaper. He was supposed to be the Ben Bradlee to Caroline's—well he wasn't, and she wasn't._

 _"Those are his words, not mine. And he wasn't happy when I didn't agree."_

 _Guinevere asked, "Is it true you were a jerk to her at an internship?"_

 _He held a palm up. "I told it to her straight. If that's what a jerk does, then yeah, I was."_

 _"What did you say?"_

 _"I told her there are other jobs better suited for people-pleasers." He shrugged. "You know there are two kinds of interns. It's the easiest call to make. Richard can blame me all he wants if it makes him feel better. When I hear hooves, I don't cry zebra."_

 _More like unicorn, if Ben Bradlee was the comparison. "It's convenient his granddaughter is shacking up with the heir of a newspaper company," Caroline said._

 _"Rory is living with Logan?" Mitchum asked, creases lining his forehead._

 _Guinevere said, "That's what sources say. You didn't know you were picking up her tab?"_

 _He didn't answer. Addressing his sister again, "She isn't with Logan for a job, so you can relax."_

 _"What makes you so sure?"_

 _"Why else would I give her an internship? She turned it down, thinking I was only making up for dinner with Shira and Pop," he said. "They didn't give her a warm welcome."_

 _An upsetting dinner was the rite of passage in this family, though participation prizes were new._

 _Skeptical, Guinevere said, "A wannabe reporter dating a newspaper heir would surely expect you to question her motives and protect your own."_

 _"It didn't seem to cross her mind," Mitchum said with a shake of his head. After a slight pause, he confided, "I can't say dinner had nothing to do with it. I showed up late and met them at the door when they were leaving." He gave Caroline a meaningful look, then shrugged. "She wants to do big things. So I gave her a chance."_

 _While his guard had slipped for a moment, Caroline's stayed intact. "Well if anyone deserves a place in the company, it's one of the notches on Logan's bedpost."_

 _Mitchum shook his head impatiently. "Don't act like I've never approached you."_

 _She took a sip of scotch as she eyed her brother. "I don't need anything from you or your company." The siblings stared each other down silently for a few seconds._

 _He still looked a bit put out as he backed away. "If you'll excuse me, I need to go toast my daughter."_

 _Caroline and Guinevere turned to go back to their table as well. "If Logon does marry that girl, he'd better outlive her," Caroline said darkly. "If Richard Gilmore's granddaughter gets to run the company," she trailed off, shaking her head. "So help me God."_

 _"Why don't you like that guy?" Guinevere asked as they got to their table, joining the boys._

 _"Who?" her father asked._

 _"Richard Gilmore."_

 _"Uh-oh," Alex said, taking a drink. Then he smiled. "Why don't you ask her what she does like about him? That list is shorter."_

 _Guinevere blinked. "What_ do _you like about him?"_

 _Caroline thoughtfully sipped from her water glass. "He has a nice collection of bow ties."_

 _Her daughter grinned, but raised a brow, waiting for an answer to her first question._

 _"He thinks it's bad business for companies to hire young women, and I used to be his go-to example," Caroline said. "I only worked for JD for four years before I moved on."_

 _Guinevere argued, "But it was for the_ Wall Street Journal _. You won a—"_

 _"That doesn't matter. The way he tells the story, young women are flighty and leave the workplace after only a few years, usually to have babies. I prove the rule."_

 _Caroline had confronted him after she heard about it. He tried to fend her off, but she persisted. Cornered, he relayed the facts: she_ did _leave Janlen's company after only four years, and she_ did _have a baby at the same time. Then, infuriatingly, he asked her if any of that was incorrect. Of course it wasn't. She was forced to agree, but—! Therefore, he condescended, as smart and capable as she was, the company had invested a great deal of time and resources on her that ultimately went down the drain. Oh, it didn't mean she lacked talent, she just wasn't suited for the corporate world._

 _Richard Gilmore didn't know the first thing about Caroline. Janlen Dugray was like a father to her, as well as a trusted mentor. He offered her a job when she finished college, and knew her better than she knew herself when she had the spirit of a wounded bird. He would never call her a waste of resources._

 _She fought the urge to recite her resume. Richard obviously had his mind made up, and it would be more satisfying to inflict pain. Besides, he shouldn't have slid a gun over to her during a knife fight._

 _Caroline coolly brought up his daughter. She dropped out to have a baby, correct? It had been a waste for Richard to send her to expensive private schools when she was going to throw it all away—and go to work as a maid, unless Caroline heard wrong? There was no shame if that's where her talents lie._

 _It was taboo, but effective. He puffed up his chest and wagged his finger at her, demanding she never talk about his daughter ever again. She had stared daggers back at him and told him to refrain from mentioning her name when sharing his narrow-minded theories in the future._

 _That was years ago, and he took to avoiding her afterward. If a man was to be a pompous ass, he should not also be a coward, she firmly believed._

 _"Then there's what he did to Jason," Alex said._

 _Caroline nodded in agreement. "That was despicable. I can't believe it's been two years already."_

 _"Who's Jason?" Guinevere asked._

 _"Stiles"._

 _"What happened?" Being an equal-opportunity gossip, she didn't need to know the people involved._

 _"Jason and Richard were briefly business partners," Alex said. "Richard made a bad financial decision, then let Jason take the fall, and ruined his reputation on top of it._

 _Caroline added, "It only took Richard a day to run his mouth all over town. Jason will be lying low for another year before he tries to make a comeback of some sort."_

"At least we're getting ready for Tristan's wedding and not Logan's," Caroline said. She'd be the first one in the congregation to stand up to object if he ever tried to marry that Gilmore.

She sat aside another dress, and caught sight of herself in the long mirror on the wall. Her strawberry blond hair was getting rather long. Gathering it at her shoulders, she contemplated how she'd have it styled for the wedding. Maybe she'd just cut it off, it was weighing her down the way it was. She dropped her hair and turned back to her closet with a sigh. "I'm going to have to go shopping tonight."

XXX

Tristan flipped to the next envelope on his stack and read, "Mr. and Mrs. Oscar Thorndike."

"Check," Rosemary said, writing a check next to the name on her list. They were almost finished checking off her guests, making sure no one was left out. They were sitting at her small dining table, surrounded by stacks of addressed envelopes.

"Mr. and Mrs. Jack Warren," he said. They continued, completing her list and switching roles. Rosemary flipped the page on her clipboard and handed it to Tristan. He slid his stack of envelopes over to her and they started the process again, taking a while to get through the Dugray's.

When they got to his mother's family, Tristan paused at Logan's name on his list. He had the option to bring a plus one.

After checking off his name, Rosemary asked, "Hey, would it be too weird if we invited Rory Gilmore?"

He frowned at her. "Kind of. She hated me, and I didn't think you were that close to her."

"It's been a year since she and Logan broke up, and I thought if we got them in the same place at the same time, maybe they could get back together," Rosemary explained. "It could be romantic." Then she smiled a little and teased, "That is, unless you think you might have an 'I take thee, Rory' moment during the ceremony."

Tristan almost rolled his eyes. "Okay, you know what? I have to confess, Rory Gilmore is not my what-if girl. I never called her that—you did."

"But you tried to date her and she kept rejecting you."

"I know, but at the time, I didn't know she wanted to be a journalist."

Rosemary asked, "What does that have to do with anything?"

"I don't date journalist," he said. "It's my number one turn off."

She looked at him strangely. "It is?"

"Yes. My mother and my sister are journalists. I love them, but I do not want to date them," he said adamantly.

"All right, calm down," Rosemary said, touching his knee. "I just always thought it was cute that you used to wonder what might have been with your cousin's girlfriend. It was a good story."

"Well, even if I did, I don't need Logan's sloppy seconds," he said. "And she isn't the girl I thought about in my bunk at military school when I couldn't sleep." Tristan did not realize how that sounded.

Rosemary didn't go back to the checklist, and instead gave him an inquisitive look. "Who was?"

"Who was what?" he asked, glancing at her.

"Who was the girl you thought about when you were at military school?"

He blinked.

At his silence, she said, "It seemed like a pretty specific memory of something you _did_ do—you did think about someone back at Chilton. So, who?"

His heart beat too fast as she continued to stare at him. He didn't see an escape. "Francie."

She slowly frowned. "Francie? The nanny across the hall, Francie?"

"Yes." He quickly went on, "It's not a big deal. She was my first real girlfriend and I didn't like how things ended. And there was one time where I thought we were getting back together, but we didn't."

Rosemary crossed her arms. "You spent the day with her at the zoo last week."

"It was only a couple ours, and it wasn't my idea. I didn't want to go."

"You didn't leave with me."

He glared angrily. "You told me to stay there with her."

"That's because I didn't know you secretly want another chance with her!"

"I don't want another chance with Francie. That was a long time ago, and she changed. She used to be a decent person, until she turned evil in that stupid girl group she joined." He added, "She got power hungry and manipulative. I didn't like that."

Rosemary took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "So, was she like, your first?"

"First what? First kiss? No." He chuckled. "Come on, no."

She stared at him impatiently. "Your first _time_. You were almost 16 after all."

"Oh." He slowly said, "No."

"Why did that sound like a question?"

He shook his head. "It wasn't, and she wasn't. And it's not like I ever told her I loved her," Tristan said quickly. He took her hands in his and made her look at him. "None of that matters—it was very high school. You remember high school, don't you? It's that special time in your life where you think the world revolves around you and your problems. But then you get over it." He went on, " _We_ are getting married next month." He picked up an envelope and tapped it on the table. "It's all planned and ready to go. We just have to walk down the aisle."

Rosemary tentatively looked back at him. "I walk down the aisle. You stand at the end, handsome in your tux."

Relief washed over Tristan, glad the subject was being dropped. "Let's get back to the list." Looking down at Logan's envelope again and seeing the plus one, he tried to joke, "Maybe we should just give Logan a plus two."

She glanced up from her list, not quite finished being annoyed. "Why?"

"He could bring Colin and Finn since he doesn't have a girlfriend anymore. It wouldn't seem like a family function without them."

She scrunched up her nose and shook her head. "I don't think that would be a good idea. Colin and his family are already on my list, and I think it'd be mean to invite Finn."

He gave her a strange look. "Why would it be mean?"

She didn't answer right away. "It would be like I'm throwing it in his face that I'm getting married. You know how he always used to hit on me."

"Yeah, but it was just a running joke," he reminded her. "And you always told him no."

Rosemary definitely hesitated this time. "Mm-hmm, mostly."

Tristan kept watching her, and sat Logan's envelope on the stack without picking up the next one. "It was mostly a joke, or you mostly always turned him down?"

"I usually—almost every time, turned him down."

Tristan stared. "So, there were times you didn't turn him down."

"Not times, time," Rosemary said. "There was one time when I did go home with him."

"Okay," he said slowly. "When was it?"

"It was during college, a couple years ago. And almost one other time, but nothing happened."

A couple years ago? They started dating a couple years ago. "When?" he asked again.

She fiddled with the stack of envelopes, straightening it into a neat stack. Looking down, she said, "After Honor's wedding."

A bad feeling settled in the pit of Tristan's stomach. "Honor's wedding? You went home with Finn after Honor's wedding? That's where we met," he said, incredulous. "And it was because you were avoiding that exact situation. You went home with him anyway?"

Her shoulders lifted defensively as his had before. "We were drinking and dancing and it got late. It was after you left—and it's not like you and I were dating. We had only met."

"I know," Tristan said, trying to calm down. "It's just a twist ending to our meet-cute. When people ask how we met, I'm going to know how the story really ended."

"That's not the end of the story." She was the one to take his hands this time. "We're getting married next month. That thing with Finn, it was nothing—it's done. It was more out of curiosity than anything else," she insisted.

Tristan felt like he lost his place as hero in his own story. Now he was the clueless idiot. "What was the other time?" he asked.

"It was only the once."

"No, the other time something almost happened."

"Oh, that. Juliet and I went to Costa Rica to meet the guys after their last stunt, but nothing happened."

So, good. But he didn't ask why nothing happened that time. Logan had an accident and got airlifted to the hospital. Tristan didn't go to Logan's graduation, but heard that his cousin had limped across the stage with a cane, still recovering. Rosemary had called him early that summer.

Tristan took a deep breath and let it out. It was fine. Like she said, they weren't together at the time, and now they were getting married.


	4. 3-4

It was early morning in the Sun-Times newsroom. Guinevere was there, along with the managing editor and a few reporters getting a jump start on their day. She went to the mailroom first thing, collecting the envelopes from her box. They ranged from business to professional. She was having her mail forwarded to the office since she didn't have a home address at the moment.

When she was seated at her desk in her office, she flipped through the envelopes stacking up the work related mail, setting it aside for later, along with a separate stack with a few bills. The first envelope she picked up was an informal invitation to Rosemary's bachelorette party. She flipped the page on her desk calendar, making a note on the appropriate day. Two weeks after that was the big day. Guinevere opened her top drawer and pulled out a heavy rectangle of cardstock with cursive writing. It came in the mail a week earlier.

 _Mr. & Mrs. Stephen Endicott _

_request the pleasure of your company_

 _at the marriage of their daughter_

 _Rosemary Eloise Endicott_

 _to_

 _Tristan Ike Dugray_

 _son of Mr. & Ms. Alexander Dugray_

 _Saturday, the second of August_

 _two thousand and eight_

Guinevere sighed. "So this is really happening," she said. She already had her brother's nuptials noted. Things were changing in big ways this year. She and Tristan were on a train that kept lurching forward, and they had boarded on roughly the same day last fall.

 _Their mother was in the kitchen, preparing the food for Thanksgiving dinner. Guinevere had just finished mashing the potatoes and stepped out to see what everyone else was doing in the den. Her father and his older brother, Joe, were on the couch watching a football game. Their uncle Joe and his wife were the only ones that showed up this year. It made for an uncharacteristically small crowd._

 _Guinevere glanced at the TV to check out the score before catching Tristan's eye. He looked slightly anxious and quickly got up when she tilted her head toward the door. She followed him to the formal sitting room at the front of the house. It was the one they used when company came over. Tristan sat down at the end of one of the couches and Guinevere took a seat in the adjacent love seat._

 _"Small crowd this year," she commented. They wouldn't even be able to play football in the backyard like usual. "Do you think anyone would notice if I snuck away this afternoon?"_

 _"Probably," Tristan said. "Where are you going?"_

 _"Mitchum and Shira's."_

 _They never visited their mother's family at Thanksgiving. Caroline traditionally prepared the meal for the whole Dugray family, but things were different this year. Grandpa had died that spring and this was their first Thanksgiving without him. Their two other uncles and their families were MIA today, on account of their other plans. They lied though. They were on the outs with her parents, unhappy with the way Janlen had divvied up his estate. Caroline had been like the sister her three brothers-in-law never had, up until the moment she was treated as such in the will. It had come as a shock when their feelings became resentful toward her. But as their culture dictated, they could not openly express this. Passive aggression was their only outlet._

 _Guinevere added, "Mitchum invited me."_

 _Tristan raised a brow. "Really?"_

 _She glanced at the doorway. "Mm-hmm."_

 _"Did he say why?"_

 _"He did after I asked," she said, pausing to draw out the drama. She leaned in toward her brother so he would do the same. "He wants to talk to me about taking some meetings with him."_

 _Tristan's eyes widened slightly, impressed. Everyone figured Mitchum would just call in his son-in-law, Josh, after Logan quit earlier that year. Nothing was going as planned or presumed. Logan was supposed to be the be-all and end-all. Even if there was a succession line mapped out, Guinevere would be near the very bottom. That's where the girls in the family ranked—dead last, behind every possible boy, even the ones by marriage._

 _Guinevere still went to the Vineyard in June. It would be stupid to sit on her hands just because it was a longshot. And now she was invited to Thanksgiving._

 _"Mom will probably be upset if you leave," Tristan said. "It hasn't been a great day for her."_

 _"I know, but I have to go."_

 _He nodded silently. After a pause, he said, "Hey, I wanted to show you something. His eyes darted toward the door to make sure no one was coming before he reached inside his pocket and pulled out a small velvet box. He opened it to let her see the diamond ring sitting inside._

 _Guinevere blinked. "This is a little sudden."_

 _He shot her a grim look and closed the box. "It's for Rosemary, her Christmas present."_

 _She took a second, but said again, "This is a little sudden, isn't it?"_

 _Tristan frowned and shook his head. "We've been dating for over a year." He went on, "And I know she'll say yes."_

 _"Why are you so confident?"_

 _He pocketed the box. "When she was telling me about how Logan proposed to his girlfriend at graduation, and she didn't know why he got rejected, since they were both out of college." He added, "Rosemary has already been out of school for a year, so she wants to get married."_

 _But did that mean Tristan did too? He didn't move to Boston to be with his girlfriend after he graduated college that spring. That was a red flag. Another was his reasoning. If not for her hinting, would he have gone out and bought a ring of his own volition?_

 _Guinevere's mind worked through his analogy. It wasn't the first time Tristan had mentioned this bit of gossip to her, since Rosemary was friends with their cousin. However, that didn't mean Guinevere ever believed it. In fact, no part of Logan's relationship ever added up for her. "Think about what you're saying."_

 _"What about it?"_

 _"Do you really believe Logan—_ Magog _—would ever want to get married? And when he's only 25?" Guinevere asked, creases firmly in place between her brows. "Think of all the girls he'd be giving up forever."_

 _"You think Rosemary made up the story?" Tristan asked, not impressed. "Why would she lie about something like that?"_

 _"Gee, I don't know, to drop a hint so you'd get her a ring?" Guinevere said pointedly. "You should have just bought her that ridiculously expensive bag she wanted when everyone else had one. At least that wouldn't come with a major life commitment."_

 _Tristan looked crestfallen. "You've never given her a chance. You write off anyone who's friends with Logan."_

 _"Well, it takes a certain degree of poor character judgment, yes, but that's beside the point right now."_

 _Irritated, he said, "I know you have to think everyone is lying, but she wasn't manipulating me into marriage."_

 _"If you haven't noticed, Logan isn't engaged. How do you explain that?"_

 _"He got turned down."_

 _She scoffed. "Well sure, he isn't as useful to her now that he doesn't want to be a Huntzberger."_

 _"Are you really that jaded?" Tristan asked. "It has to be forced."_

 _"Fine, let's say it's true. How has it stayed such a well-kept secret?"_

 _He lifted his shoulders and held a palm up, exasperated. "I don't know, maybe because it's embarrassing for him and everyone wants to stay on Mitchum and Shira's good side," he said. "We don't know that no one talks about it—Mom doesn't run in the circles that gossip. When she and the men talk shop, they don't discuss their kids' love lives."_

 _Convenient, Guinevere thought. It was all very convenient. She wanted to point out that he just called them kids, and he was right. He was a kid. But she knew that argument wasn't going to get any traction here. He'd just pull the 'Mom and Dad' card. He refused to acknowledge that Caroline and Alex Dugray were not realistic. By normal standards, they should have divorced a long time ago—like the 80's, when everyone else was splitting up. At the very least they should be stuck in a stagnate, loveless marriage._

 _Tristan still had a naivety about him that he hadn't quite grown out of._

 _He shook his head. "It doesn't matter, this isn't about Logan. Rosemary and I have been dating for a while, so I'm proposing. It's the natural order of things. And even if she did hint that she wants to get married, who cares? Girls hint at what they want all the time." He asked, "Can't you just be happy for me?"_

 _Guinevere took a deep breath to calm down. "I'm sorry. If this is what you want, and it makes you happy, then I'm happy for you."_

It was her brother's choice. He was the one who had to live with his decisions. Guinevere scrunched up her lips in thought. Who would she know at this bachelorette party? The bride, obviously, and her friend—the one who may or may not have an eating disorder. Juliet, that was her name.

Honor would probably be there, which wasn't exactly comforting. Where they had previously shared friendly indifference toward each other, amicably gossiping about mutual acquaintances, there was now an underlying tension. The dynamic in the family had shifted, but it remained uncharacteristically ignored. Huntzberger's didn't tip toe around elephants in the room, until now. Guinevere was the elephant and no one was acknowledging it. It was disconcerting that they'd let things lie. Honor and Shira weren't happy with Guinevere's new status, but were pretending they didn't care.

Rosemary had not seemed to notice though, if her bridal shower was any indication. If a stranger had observed the party goers, they might have confused Shira and Honor as the mother and sister of the groom. Rosemary rubbed elbows with them with ease, and they played along. Guinevere and Caroline socialized with Aunt Kassie. Of all the members in the clan, Kassie was the only one who could get along with everyone without effort. She bridged the many gaps.

It was quite possible Guinevere and Caroline were that unlikable. Or maybe Rosemary just didn't get it. It was probably both. The Dugray women couldn't be confused for ladies who lunch. They didn't always fit in certain social situations. An all-girl event was one of them.

She picked up her phone and dialed her brother.

"Hello?" he answered.

"Hey, when is your bachelor party?"

"Two weeks before the wedding, the same time as the bachelorette party."

"Isn't that kind of early?"

"A little. But we wanted the parties to be at the same time, and that's the only night both sides of the wedding party could all get together. Are you going to be able to make it? Rosemary invited you."

"I know, I just got the invitation in the mail. I want to go to your party instead."

"My party is for the guys."

"Yes, and being 'one of the guys' should get me into my brother's bachelor party. There aren't that many other benefits," she said. The quagmire that was the friend zone certainly wasn't one. "I would have to get Rosemary a gift, and I don't know what that entails for a bachelorette party." This was the first one she'd ever been invited to, except for Honor's a couple years ago. But she was family, so it was only an obligatory invite. Guinevere hadn't made it to that anyway. She added, "I have no intention of buying negligee that my brother will be removing." She shuddered.

"You'll have to talk to my best man if you want to come to mine. He's making all the arrangements," Tristan said, giving her the phone number. "I'm not sure if there's going to be a stripper, but I think there will be a steak dinner, just to warn you."

"I'll eat the baked potato and a salad," she said. "I'll be fine." And if there was a stripper, she probably had an interesting origin story.

"So, have you found a place to live yet?" he asked.

"I have not."

"You'll have better luck if you leave the newsroom."

Guinevere sighed. "There aren't a lot of rental options around here. I might have to get a house."

"You're such a grown up."

"I know." Maybe she'd feel like one soon. She added, "I need a car too. I can't drive a rental forever."

"You could just get a couch for your office. That would kill two birds with one stone." Then he asked, "I know you were living in New York and no one drives there, but why didn't you just leave your car at home?"

Guinevere exhaled. "I needed the money."

"To support some kind of addiction?"

"In a way. I accumulated some debt in college." She rested her chin in her palm and wistfully looked out the window. "It was sophomore year and I wanted to go to Super Bowl Media Day. So I got a credit card and went. But it was a bust—the players were forced to be there, the reporters were cynical."

"Where was it that year?"

"San Diego. The Packers and the Broncos were playing. Anyway, Media Day was disappointing, so when spring break rolled around in mid-March, I went to cover some NCAA finals games."

"How many?"

She paused. "Enough to extend my spring break another week. Or two. March Madness quickly segued into Opening Day."

She could hear Tristan smirking on the other end when he asked, "What about your classes?"

"I skipped some, obviously." It led to her falling behind in Chemistry and it was too late to drop the class, so her grade—and GPA—slipped. She didn't even get picked to be the next editor of the paper after all that. They chose someone else, who didn't go the extra mile. Bastards.

"Dad came up to the Berkshires a week before my birthday and took me out for lunch, where he proceeded to tell me he wasn't going to pay off the seven credit cards I didn't need to open." She went on, "So when I tried to warn you that your high school escapades were going to catch up with you, it was because I knew from experience."

"Huh." Tristan mused, "Dad's like Joe Paterson. Screw up and you're going down."

"Oh yeah, he'd definitely fire me if he had to," she said. "There's a Ford dealership about an hour away. I'm thinking about a getting a Mustang. Then we'll both have one."

"I don't have one."

"You're getting Dad's."

"I am?" he asked, pleasantly surprised.

"Yeah. He gave me Ike's watch, so you're getting the Mustang," she said. "He said you wanted it more since you snuck it out."

"He knows about that?" Tristan asked.

"Apparently. It's going to come with paperwork that legally prohibits you from selling it." She asked, "When did you take it out?"

"Summer before junior year." _That_ summer. "I had to take it for Tristan Dugray's Day Off. We skipped class and went to New York."

"Who's we?"

There was a silent beat. "No one."

"Okay," she said slowly.

He abruptly changed the subject, "Have things improved with your assistant?"

"Well, when I asked him something yesterday, he finished his answer with, 'at least that's how we do it in print journalism'," she said. "Dude, my first job was at _Newsday_ , I know how we do things. Save the snark."

"In his defense, that was a tabloid layout, not a broadsheet."

She gasped. "Don't speak ill of Alicia Paterson's paper to me. The format was innovative."

"Not when she did it. She was just copying what her dad did at The Daily News," Tristan reminded her. "You know how _One Tree Hill_ is overly occupied with basketball?"

"No, but I'll humor you. What about it?"

"Our family is a lot like that, but with newspapers."

Guinevere grinned. She was about to let Tristan get back to his day and start her own, when he asked, "Hey, have you ever had a recurring dream?"

"I've never had a dream repeat itself verbatim, but I've had dreams with recurring themes," she said. "Like when I have something big coming up—an important game to cover or presentation for school. In real life I'm anxious, and in the dreams I'm running late and can't get my shit together to leave on time." She continued, "I'll be putting on pants and look down and I'm like, well these are clear, I can't wear these. Then I wake up and realize I have a couple days before the big thing. It actually relieves some of the anxiety. Why?" she asked. "Are you dreaming about being late for the wedding?"

"Something like that," he said before they ended the call.

XXX

Francie parked her car in the lot and she and the girls got out. They were just getting in from a movie, and now she only had to get them to bed. The younger was looking tired, but the tween wanted to stay up late to watch Conan. She was going to argue that it was, after all, Friday night. She should get to stay up little later. Luckily, their mother was home and still awake, so the decision was up to her while Francie was free to work on homework.

It was almost one in the morning when she finished. Her bed looked inviting, but she couldn't find her phone and needed to set her alarm. She checked her purse and couldn't find it, and a pat down of her pants wasn't fruitful either, so she picked up her keys and went back out to her car. Her cell was there, still in a cup holder where she'd sat it earlier.

Francie was about to get out and go back inside, when four people stumbled out of the building's front door—two guys and two girls. It was Rosemary with a blond girl, but neither of the two guys was Tristan. Francie quietly pulled her car door to an almost shut position and rolled the window down, keeping very still.

Two of the boisterous group members headed for a car, waving to Rosemary and the remaining man. He had tanned skin and jet black hair. Francie detected his Australian accent.

"Okay, here's your car," Rosemary told him with a giggle. "I've seen you down safely, so can I go back upstairs now?"

"Wait," he said, grabbing her by the wrist. "I can't go yet. I haven't successfully talked you out of this yet."

"Talked me out of what?"

"Out of marrying this—this Logan Huntzberger knock-off," the Australian said, slurring slightly. "I can't let you."

"Finn," Rosemary said with a groan. "We talked about this. I'm going to marry Tristan. In a month."

Finn shook his head. "What about us?"

"There is no us. There never has been."

"You know that isn't true."

Rosemary exhaled heavily. "Tristan is the kind of guy I belong with. He's marriage material, for one thing. And for another, with his sister taking Logan's place in the company, she'll need to name an heir one day. It's not like she has any prospects. So any kids _we_ have . . ."

"Ah, you want to be the new dowager queen. You'll have to pry that title out of Shira's cold dead hands."

"A dowager queen is the widow of a dead king."

"No, she's the mother of the next heir."

"Maybe by coincidence, but that's not what the word means," Rosemary said. "How did you get into Yale?"

"I slept with the recruiter, and I'm not saying that to make you jealous." A beat. "Unless it does."

"Finn . . ."

He shook his head. "If you think everyone in your little scenario lives happily ever after, you're dreaming, or high. Maybe both."

"I am not. Logan escaped, like he always wanted, and Guinevere stepped up. Things have resolved peacefully. End of story."

Finn looked at her, pityingly. "Darling, that family is a powder keg, and it's giving off sparks. It's not over till it's over."

"What are you talking about?" she asked doubtfully.

"Mitchum, Dark Lord though he is, always hoped his dear son would willingly follow in his footsteps one day. He never thought to manipulate him into it."

Rosemary frowned. "Meaning?"

"Meaning, he has now done the one thing that will drive Logan crazy. He moved on. He took the option away."

"But this is Logan we're talking about," she said. "He never saw it as an option so much as a life sentence."

"You don't know him the way I do," Finn said. "He doesn't like being told what he has to do any more than likes being told what he _can't_ do. Why do you think he became a boyfriend?"

"Because of Rory," Rosemary said. "She's special."

Finn shook his head. "We hadn't seen her for weeks, and I know he wasn't trying to contact her. What happened was, she tried to cut him off and move on. He didn't like that. Suddenly he was calling himself a boyfriend and bragging about how good he'd be at it."

"Maybe he prefers to be the one doing the rejecting."

He shrugged. "Could be. But it's more likely he can't walk away from a challenge. Do you really think Mitchum will hand things over to Gwenny if his dear boy gives the slightest sign of making a comeback?"

Rosemary considered this for a moment. "I guess not."

"The Prodigal son will get his slaughtered calf," Finn said confidently.

Francie listened from her car, disappointed for Guinevere. It wasn't fair, and yet she had a feeling Tristan would agree with what Finn was saying.

"That's _if_ you're right about Logan," Rosemary said.

"I am. There's something else you don't realize about the Huntzberger's. They can't quit the family, as much as they want to," he said. "Your future mother-in-law is probably the biggest masochist of them all."

She sighed, thinking it over for a moment. "Well, at least now I won't feel bad when I tell Tristan I don't want to move to South Carolina."

"Why on earth would you move to South Carolina?" he deadpanned.

"Guinevere took a job at one of Mitchum's papers and Tristan wants me to consider moving there. He wants to be supportive." She went on, "I mean, that's where he went to military school. Why would he want to move back to the place he was exiled? It might make sense if it was boarding school in Europe. But the Deep South?"

Francie's brows furrowed. Rosemary had her Carolina's mixed up.

"You could make friends with Guinevere," Finn teased.

"We went shopping a few weeks ago. I've never not had fun shopping before."

"Was she pedantic?" he asked. "She does that sometimes. I once forwarded her a chain e-mail and she fact checked it and replied to all."

"She walked past Sephora like it wasn't there." Rosemary shook her head. "I didn't want to move to South Carolina anyway, but especially not if working for Mitchum won't get her anywhere. What's the point?"

Tristan would want to be there for his family, regardless, Francie though. It was the example set for him.

Rosemary went on, "I am still marrying him though, so don't get your hopes up." She brightened. "Hey, why don't I set you up with the nanny next door? She's a redhead. Everyone knows how much you like redheads."

"It's not redheads I like," he argued. "I like a girl who happens to be a redhead. If I pick up another, everyone will see through me."

"Well it turns out she's Tristan's what-if girl, so what does that make me?" Rosemary asked, somewhat hysterical. "He let me believe Rory Gilmore was the one that got away, but that wasn't true."

Francie's heart beat harder at the omission. Did Tristan say that about her? When? And why? Is that why he was still mad at her? She turned her attention back to Finn and Rosemary.

He was gently brushing her hair behind her ear, his hand lingering to cup the side of her face. He answered, "It makes you someone else's what-if girl." He leaned down toward her and she didn't pull away. Rosemary tilted her head up to accept Finn's kiss. He pulled her hips closer to him and her hands went to his neck.

When their lips parted, Finn didn't let her go. She didn't try to get away, but weakly protested, "Finn . . . I can't."

"Can't? Or don't want to?" He told her, "You're not married yet."

She was the one to kiss him again before letting him lead her to his car.

Francie's eyes were as wide as saucers. Where were they going? She had to know. Before Finn's car could disappear, Francie quickly turned the key in the ignition and slammed her door shut. She backed out of her parking spot and followed them. She tailed them from a distance that wouldn't be noticed, though she couldn't imagine either Finn or Rosemary being aware of anyone else right now.

Finn turned into a hotel parking lot and ushered his companion inside. Francie had no way of knowing if he already had a room, or was registering for one just for this rendezvous, but that didn't really matter. Tristan's fiancée was following another man into a hotel in the middle of the night.

Francie sat watching the entrance for a while, but neither Finn nor Rosemary emerged. It was late when she finally decided to head back.

But she couldn't sleep. Her mind was racing, wondering what she should do. She had to do something. She couldn't let Tristan marry Rosemary. Were the invitations already mailed? They probably were, the wedding was in less than six weeks.

Was Francie really thinking about trying to stop a wedding? She had never orchestrated a coup _this_ big or dramatic. Or over something this important. This was life changing.

She paced in the living room, checking the window every time she heard any small sound outside. She didn't even know what she was going to do if Rosemary returned home.

Hours passed, and Francie stayed sentient. She was about to leave the living room to get the girls up for breakfast when she heard a car door slam out in the parking lot, followed by a honk to lock the doors. A peek out the window revealed Rosemary had finally returned. Francie had to intercept her.

Intercept her? And then what? She didn't know as she grabbed the key to the mailbox and went out to the hallway. It seemed like an eternity before the elevator dinged, and Francie's heart was pounding quickly when Rosemary stepped off. She pretended to be occupied with something in the mailbox until the other woman passed by.

"Good morning," Francie said pleasantly, turning back toward the apartment.

"Morning," Rosemary mumbled. She was wearing large sunglasses and her hair was messy.

"Late night?" When the other woman only frowned in response and unlocked her door, Francie said, "Tristan was sent to _North_ Carolina, not south."

Rosemary lifted her head enough to meet Francie's eyes, or at least Francie assumed she could see the other woman's eyes if not for the sunglasses. "What?" she asked, unlocking her door and standing just inside her apartment.

"Last night, you told Finn that Tristan wants to move to South Carolina, where he was exiled," Francie said, using her old sugary sweet voice. "But he was sent to North Carolina. You remember saying that, don't you?" Dropping the friendly tone, she firmly said, "It was right before you went to that hotel with Finn."

Rosemary stared, her jaw locked. Silently, she slammed the door in Francie's face.


	5. Part I: Everything Has Changed

**A/N:** Thank you for reading and reviewing! I always value feedback when I veer from the beaten path. I don't like to put a lot of notes here, but for anyone who doesn't frequent my blog: 1.) Heroine switch: think of Francie as my Elphaba. I had to stop forcing a square peg into a round hole, pretending it's incredibly precious/special/amazing/talented/etc, etc, etc, etc. It's fun to write characters who don't receive steady compliments from the rest of the cast. 2.) Let's pretend the parents are people. Crazy, I know. But maybe they're carrying around their own demons.

 **Part I: Everything Has Changed**

Francie Jarvis climbed out of her father's car and looked up at the massive building in front of her. It was the last day of her first week at Chilton. She'd survived without incident, but she was coming off summer break. She hadn't adjusted to the early mornings yet. But early was her only choice. Her father had to be at work by 7:30 every morning, and he was her ride. So she'd have to deal with being here an hour before classes started every morning.

Francie had gone to private school her whole life, conditioning her to demanding teachers with high expectations, but Chilton was a new ballgame. It took itself very seriously, which wasn't to say her last school didn't, but a college prep school upped the ante.

She watched the houses outside the car window on the ride. They were enormous. Francie never considered her family poor—well, that wasn't true, she had thought it more than once while growing up. Her parents were embarrassingly cheap sometimes, but they reminded her that money didn't grow on trees and told her how lucky they were if she complained, which she sometimes did. She was not in the same league as her classmates. The uniforms might keep their J. Press to her St. John's Bay a secret, but the parking lot revealed the truth. The juniors and seniors who drove to school did so in style. The teachers' cars on the other hand, were more like her father's Subaru.

She was here on scholarship. It was why she was at Chilton and not at Taft or Loomis Chaffee. The former didn't offer financial aid and the later was too far out of the way. So here she was. Her father couldn't slip the headmaster a donation if she got a bad grade or got into trouble. She'd just be out-off to Catholic school like her mother preferred. Francie was planning to avoid that. She felt as though nine years of parochial school was sufficient.

She had gone mostly unnoticed by her classmates, which was fine, because when she was noticed, it wasn't exactly welcoming. There was one girl, Paris, who wore a perpetual frown on her face as she went from class to class, furiously taking notes and answering every question before anyone else could process. They had four classes together, which was four too many. She offered sidelong glares to Francie, obviously wanting to know her story. Francie was only 14, she didn't have a story.

Paris got in Francie's face on the second day of school, making it clear she was going to be the first in their class and how no one, especially not a social climber, was going to get in her way. Upon seeing a red B at the top of a pop quiz the next day, Paris smugly commented to her friends how she didn't have to worry about anyone who was only here to find a rich husband. The girl obviously had a complex. Francie could have sworn she heard the intense girl say something about needing to get puffed so she could get into Harvard or she'd never make it to the Supreme Court. Francie could not even imagine what that meant.

She walked through the entrance and down the hallowed halls. No one else was around except for the teachers. The extra-curricular clubs and teams wouldn't start meeting until next week, so there was no point in the rest of her classmates being here any earlier than they had to. Since she didn't have anywhere to be for an hour, she claimed a table in the cafeteria to read over some biology notes. She didn't get much farther than a page when a fellow student from the freshman class walked through the large doors. Her eyes followed him across the room to a pastry station.

She had three classes with him, so she knew his name was Tristan. It stood out as a name she'd never heard before, and because it sounded like a combination of Triscuit and Kristen. She expected a girl to answer when the teacher read the name during roll call and was surprised when a blond boy answered instead. And not just a boy, but the hottest one she'd ever seen in real life, the likes of which belonged next to the magazine photos of Heath Ledger and Leonardo DiCaprio she had taped inside her locker.

They had history together last hour. After the teacher had handed out the syllabus on the first day, Tristan quickly skimmed the outline of the course, flipping to the last page. He'd raised his hand to ask if they were going to learn about the Vietnam War, and upon the teacher's answer of no, not this year, he sat back, his eyes glazing over in disinterest.

He seemed to know everyone here already, and she doubted he'd noticed her at all.

XXX

Tristan sat down with a bagel and dropped one of his textbooks on the table. He pulled out an assignment from the book and a pen from his pocket. He felt like he had finally arrived. He was free to do his homework in the morning it was due while eating breakfast before class. He used to be envious of his sister when he was in elementary school. He had to finish all his homework before he went to bed the night before, but Guinevere waited until the last minute. It seemed rather glamorous to a fifth grader.

Besides the freedoms high school afforded, Chilton was a lot like the last place. He knew the kids from his elementary school class, and he'd encountered plenty of the others from various summer camps when they were younger. That only left a handful of new people to scout out. Tristan was always quick to spot new faces. Keeping track of circulation numbers-or enrollment numbers, as it were-used to be his job.

He glanced around the cafeteria, seeing only a few other students who arrived early. There were some upper classmen a few tables over, and a girl with red curly hair sitting across from him at the next table. He recognized her from a few of his classes, Francine, he believed. She reminded him of Rosie the Riveter-Norman Rockwell's, with the redheaded muscular woman eating a sandwich and a 'don't mess with me' attitude, not the 'We Can Do It' poster everyone mistook as Rosie. Tristan's mother had an original framed copy of that issue of the _Saturday Evening Post_ , a gift from his father.

He went to work on his geometry assignment, soon wondering if he'd have time to get to the reading for English before the first bell. Given how many pages it was, he had his doubts.

Opposite him, Francine gasped. "Ah, son of a bitch." Her hand flew to her mouth, an apparent paper cut. When she noticed Tristan had looked up at her sudden outburst, she quickly amended, "I mean ow. I said ow."

The corner of his mouth just barely lifted. "No you didn't. You yelled an obscenity for everyone to hear. It's a good thing Headmaster Charleston isn't here, or he might suspend you."

"Do you really think he has virgin ears?"

"I'm not sure. But he's friends with my grandpa, and I've never heard my grandpa use vulgar words like that, so."

"I'm sorry, do _you_ have virgin ears?" she asked.

This time he grinned. "No. I've heard lots of bad words."

"Oh, you've _heard_ lots, well then," she said. "I won't have to worry about censoring myself then."

He asked, "You're new here, aren't you?"

She looked at him strangely. "It's freshman year of high school. Aren't we all new here? Unless this isn't your first year. Are you a super freshman, giving it another shot? I won't judge, I swear."

The corner of his mouth upturned again. "No, this is my first year. But a lot of us went to the same primary school. I already know most of the kids in our class."

"Do you like them?" Francine asked, warily eyeing some of the other plaid skirted girls walking into the cafeteria.

Tristan chuckled softly. "Some of them."

"This place is very serious, all the time," Francie said, looking back at him. "How am I supposed to know what I want to be when I grow up? I'm not even fifteen yet, I have eight more years to figure that out."

Oh good, he wasn't the only one. "Yeah, I just put finance on my application," Tristan said. "I'd have some options with that. I don't know if it's what I want to do though."

"Last year all the eighth graders had to take an exploratory class to learn about careers and I said I wanted to be an accountant. Then I read about what accountants do. Now I know I can cross that off my list."

"My dad's first job was at an accounting firm in New York," he said. "That's where he met my mom." He added, "They didn't hit it off."

XXX

 _Caroline Huntzberger glowered at the coffee maker with crossed arms as it spit out the last of the coffee into the pot. She was in the breakroom, working on her first assigned task. Things were not starting out the way she wished. She'd dressed in a grey pencil skirt and crisp white oxford blouse, put her hair up in a bun, and arrived early, only to be told to get coffee for everyone on the seventh floor._

 _She arranged the coffee pot on a tray with as many cups as she could fit, and began distributing it among the employees sitting in their cubicles. As most of the office staff was made up of men, she received many appraising glances, along with several 'thanks, sweetheart's'. She bit her tongue and kept moving. When she got to the last cubicle, it was occupied by a young man that arrived at the same time as her this morning. He had politely opened the door for her._

 _Now, he eyed her curiously as he accepted a cup. "I didn't know I was getting a secretary."_

 _He was admittedly handsome, with dark hair and pleasing brown eyes. He was clearly fresh out of college. The cup of coffee landed on his desk with a thud. She lifted her eyes enough to give him a death stare. "I am not a secretary—yours or anyone else's. I'm a summer intern." She watched him take a sip of the coffee, raising her brows slightly._

 _He reluctantly swallowed. "Have you ever made coffee before?"_

" _Not until this morning." She lightly asked, "Why?"_

 _He grimaced and shook his head. "_ _No reason. J_ _ust think how good you'll get_ _at it by the end of the summer_ _."_

 _How well-bred of him. She considered him a moment. "Or, I won't. Then they'll have to find someone else to make it. I'm not here to serve coffee. I'm here to learn about business."_

" _I could teach you some things," he said, the smile back._

 _Her frown changed from annoyed to skeptical. "I doubt that."_

 _He leaned his head toward her and whispered loudly, "I wasn't actually talking about business."_

" _I know, and my comment still stands."_

 _Before she could get away, he asked, "Where do you go to school?"_

 _She turned back and crossed her arms, not interested in conversing with him. "Sarah Lawrence. I'll be a sophomore this fall."_

 _He leaned back in his chair. "Weren't the Sarah Lawrence girls interested in merging with Princeton?"_

 _Caroline pointedly answered, "No. Princeton made the offer, and Sarah Lawrence declined." Then she deadpanned, "There will be no merging."_

 _He got a twinkle in his eye and he smirked, apparently amused by her. He stuck out his hand. "We haven't properly met. I'm Alex Dugray. It's my first day—as a real employee, not an intern."_

 _She reluctantly accepted his hand. His was large and warm, and he firmly shook hers. "Is Alex short for something?"_

" _Yeah, Alexander. But you can call me Alex, everyone else does."_

" _Then you should tell them your parents named you Alexander."_

 _He countered, "My parents call me Alex too."_

" _T_ _hen_ _that's what they should have named you." She never understood why parents gave their children perfectly good names with the intention_ _of_ _call_ _ing_ _them something else._

 _He lost a beat. "Uh, I'll let them know. Do you have a name?"_

 _She took her hand back,_ _as he'd held onto it longer than necessary_ _. "Caroline." She stopped short before including her last name. Images of her step-mother, Vivienne, came to mind. She'd drop her name—Mrs. Elias Huntzberger, of_ The New York-Herald Tribune— _to_ _get in wherever she wanted. A woman with that name didn't even have to have to RSVP to events. Doors just opened. Caroline cringed with embarrassment every time. She vowed to never do the same, even though she_ was _keeping her name._

" _Ah, Sweet Caroline," Alex said._

 _She almost blushed. "What?"_

" _Sweet Caroline, bum bum bum," he sang. "You know, the Neil Diamond song."_

 _Her youngest brother—half-brother, actually—sang it to her sometimes when he thought she needed cheering up. He was a strange boy, always doing silly little things to try to make people laugh. Caroline supposed the youngest of four children might have to try harder to get some attention. Then again, with a name like Fox Huntzberger, a sense of humor was necessary. The poor boy didn't even get his own name, but had to share one with their father. He had to go by his middle name to avoid confusion at home, which wasn't all that effective, considering 'Fox' was their father's nickname at the office._

 _While Caroline shared reddish blond hair with Fox, her brother, Mitchum, was her comrade in the family. He was a Yale man now, and would also be a sophomore come fall. They were often mistaken for twins, but he was younger than her, even if it was by less than a year. He didn't start school early on account of his brilliance, it was just an opportunity to get them both out of the house at the same time. Given the circumstances in the family that year, it was probably ideal._

 _A two for one deal, Caroline and Mitchum could be a handful. They were often getting into things and asking too many questions. But Caroline felt that should be expected of them, considering. Mitchum actually did have some natural brilliance, when he directed it to something more constructive than stunts. It was fine though, he was still young. He needed some time to have some fun, because after college Caroline was sending him to work. She had big plans for him and was sure he would live up to them._

" _Very clever,"_ _she_ _said. "No one's ever thought to sing that to me before."_

" _Really?"_

" _No, not really," she said flatly._

 _She turned to leave, but the young man stopped her, yet again. "Are there any newspapers lying around somewhere?"_

 _Her chin raised an inch and she narrowed her eyes in scrutiny. "Yes, which one do you want?"_

" _The_ Wall Street Journal _, if it's available."_

" _It isn't," she said automatically. "There's_ The New York Times _or_ The New York Herald-Tribune _."_

" _Oh, uh, whatever. Just pick one."_

" _We just met, I don't know your newspaper preferences. You choose."_

 _His brow twitched in a slight frown. "Fine, The Herald-Tribune then."_

 _Caroline smiled triumphantly, leaving the cubicle to retrieve the paper. "Why The Herald-Tribune over The Times?" she asked when she had returned with the requested paper._

 _Alex paged through the sections of the paper. "Because you made me pick one. They're pretty much the same."_

" _They are not," she argued with a deep frown. "You obviously think The Herald-Tribune is better for some reason. Why?"_

 _He shrugged. "It's just a newspaper."_

" _Just a newspaper?" she repeated. "It is not just a newspaper."_

 _Caroline didn't know how he could say something so dismissive._ The New York Herald-Tribune _was an American institution. It was a beacon of quality journalism, the best of the best. Young aspiring journalists dreamed of working for The Herald-Tribune. It wasn't something Caroline took lightly. She couldn't, it was her birthright._

 _Alex glanced up at her as he pulled out the section he was looking for. "Okay, you got me. I did have a reason for passing up The Times." He held up the excerpt with colorful pages. "The Herald-Tribune has the funnies."_

 _Caroline stared. "The funnies? You chose a paper because it has the funnies?"_

" _Yes, and The Times doesn't. I know it's a good paper, and the crossword puzzle is okay, but I think it's a little pretentious to leave out the comic section, don't you think?"_

 _She gaped for a moment. "But what about the investigative journalism?" she asked, picking up the sections he discarded. "Don't you want the best coverage of the war in Vietnam? Have you even been following the Pentagon Papers?"_

 _He opened the paper and laid it out over his desk. "I'll read about all that. But I'm going to want something lighthearted to balance things out. Marmaduke will hit the spot."_

 _He was serious. Caroline was at a loss for words, possibly for the first time in her life. Did her father know people were giving him business based on something as trivial as a cartoon dog? This astounded her, but she also saw it for what it was: a valuable lesson for a publisher. Comics sold papers, apparently. Maybe she shouldn't hold much stock in how Alexander Dugray made important life choices, but it was still worth noting. There could be throngs of American consumers who chose the same way._

 _She watched the young man-nay, boy-engrossed in his comics and dryly said, "You should at least save dessert for last."_

 _He gave her a slow once over. "I'd like a different kind of dessert, actually."_

 _Finally, she had enough. Narrowing her eyes, she asked, "Shouldn't you be farther north-dodging the draft?"_

 _His smile faded, the glint in his eye gone. "Don't you have more coffee to serve?"_

 _She wasn't sure why the sudden mood shift, but glad to shut him down. She turned to go, confident her message had been received._

XXX

"Read chapter two, and be ready for a quiz first thing Monday," the teacher instructed as the bell rang at the end of the last class of the day."Next time, there won't be a warning about the quiz."

Francie wrote down the assignment and gathered her things, glancing over at Tristan as he spoke to the boy in the desk next to him. She slowed down her pace enough meet him at the door.

"Oh, hey," he said, letting her go through the door first.

"Hi." She commented, "They sure do like to pile on the homework here, don't they?"  
He nodded. "It's a lot if you aren't used to it. Where did you go to school?"

"Immaculate Conception."

He arched a brow. "You're a Catholic school girl? Aren't they naughty?"

"That depends," she said as they walked down the hall. "Is all your knowledge coming from a Britney Spears music video?"

He smirked. "Maybe."

She shook her head. "I'm obviously not a Catholic school girl if I'm here."

"But you are a school girl, and you're still Catholic, so I think that counts." He pointed up ahead to a bulletin board full of postings. "Are you going to sign up for anything?"

"Probably. I had to do community service at my last school. My mom thinks it should be part of our tuition here."

"My grandpa would get along with her. He's always going on about noblesse oblige." Tristan shrugged. "I guess it'll look good on college applications."

Francie glanced up at him. "I think that's why Mother Teresa does it." He grinned at that. She walked with him to the board. Various clubs, teams, and interest groups had pinned up sign-up sheets for students wishing to participate. "I want to try out for the volleyball team in the spring."

"My sister was the student manager of the volleyball team when she went here," Tristan said. "And the girls' basketball team."

"Did she play on any teams?"

"No." He chuckled and shook his head. "No, no. Well, she ran cross country. But she's terrible at all the sports she likes. Those who can, do, and those who can't, write." He tapped one of the sign-up sheets. _The Franklin_ , that's what their English teacher had asked Tristan about on the first day of school, and how it'd been a long time since a Dugray had worked on it. He had shaken his head with a smile.

"What's _The Franklin_?"

"The school paper," he answered without another glance at the sign-up sheet.

She nodded once in understanding. It might seem stalker-like to admit she'd been watching his interaction with their teacher, so she asked, "Are you going to join?"

She got the same response as Mr. Medina. "Nah, newspapers are my sister's thing, and my mom's thing. And my uncle's thing."

"As in, a thing they read?"

"Among other things," he said, his eyes roaming over the activities. He read one about a meeting for the crew team and signed his name on one of the lines.

"Did you sister already graduate high school?" Francie asked.

"Yeah, she's in college up in Massachusetts now. It's her last year."

Massachusetts, damn it, Francie thought with a sinking feeling. It was true, everyone at Chilton was supposed to go to Harvard. Her heart started to beat too fast. What if she couldn't get into Harvard? What if she didn't even want to go there? Weren't other schools good enough? Would they make her leave if they found out she wasn't ambitious enough to care about Harvard?

She was interrupted from her musings by a group of three girls. It was Ms. Harvard herself. Paris was flanked by a blond and brunette, who both greeted Tristan with flirtatious smiles. He greeted all of them by name—Paris, Madeline, and Louise. The only acknowledgment of Francie was a quick scowl from Paris. She watched with amusement when Paris smiled up at Tristan, fawningly.

"Are you going out for _The Franklin_?" she asked after she'd quickly scribbled her own name at the top of the sheet.

"No, I don't think so."

"That's too bad," Paris said. "Remember how much fun we had on Guinevere's paper in elementary school?"

He shrugged. "Sure, but I was just the newsboy. She only found a job for me because I'm her brother." He added, "It was nepotism, not any aptitude on my part. She had to give you a real job though."

"I'm sure you would make a great editor."

He smiled at her, not just politely, but charming. "Come on Paris, everyone knows you're going to be the editor of _The Franklin_. The job has your name on it."

Paris actually blushed and shyly smiled at the compliment. It appeared even a complete hard-ass could have a weak spot.

Francie asked, "What made you so interested in newspapers?"

A Cheshire cat grin crept up on Louise's face, glancing up at Tristan. She was about to answer when Paris cut her off, "I have lots of interests, the school paper is only one."

In her low sultry voice, Louise said, "Our class needs two representatives for student government." She pointed to the posting and smiled at Tristan. "Do you want to run with me?"

Paris signed up for the job, and then frowned at her friend, "You don't care about student government."

Still smiling while eyeing Tristan like he was a prime rib, Louise said, "I could learn to care under the right circumstances."

Paris signed up for most of the other non-sports activities and goaded her friends to do the same. When they were about to leave, she told Tristan, "Tell Guinevere I said hi." She shot Francie one more dirty look before turning to walk away with her friends.

When they had disappeared and Francie was alone with Tristan again, she picked up the pen that was hanging off the board and signed her name under Paris's for the student representative job. As she wrote, she asked, "Friends of yours?"

"Kind of. We've gone to school together since kindergarten." He cocked a brow. "Going up against Paris? That's gutsy." He took the pen from her. "Maybe I _will_ run. I guess it could be fun."

She lifted a shoulder. "Under the right circumstances."

At the sound of his pager going off, he glanced down. "That's my ride, I have to go. Have a good weekend," he said before leaving her.


	6. 1-2

_Mitchum Huntzberger walked down the stairs and into the dining room, where his older sister was eating cereal, the morning paper in front of her. He picked up a bagel from a tray of pastries sitting at the center of the table before he took a seat across from her. All work and no play this summer, Caroline had on a skirt and blouse. Her coppery yellow hair was pulled away from her face._

" _You got in late last night," she commented without lifting her eyes._

" _I was out with some friends."_

" _Don't get caught up with them tomorrow, we have plans."_

 _He saluted her. "You're the boss."_

 _They could hear voices coming down the hall, and a moment later their father and stepmother joined them, the younger two kids bustling in behind them. Kassie was giggling at something Fox said as they took their seats._

 _Vivienne sat down adjacent to the head of the table next to Elias. She was a Norcross, of the Boston Norcross's. Taking her fashion cues from Jackie O, she was wearing a bohemian skirt with a blouse, her dark hair cut shoulder length. She was a brave soul, to have married a man who came with a brood of three and then tried to civilize them. Being relative newcomers to polite society, Huntzberger's resisted adapting to the unspoken rules on behavior valued by a group of people who arrived 200 years before them. And seeing how the American aristocracy was quickly losing its status as the ruling class, there was no point in doing things their way now._

 _Vivienne didn't give Mitchum much trouble, so they usually got along. And Kassie, having a cooperative nature, would be a bona fide well-bred young lady by the time she finished high school in a few years._

 _Things were not going as smoothly with Caroline. Reasons varied. As the oldest, she decided it was her responsibility to look after her brother and sister when she was six. When their father remarried two years later, their new stepmother encroached on her territory. Caroline considered it her civic duty to question authority—Vivienne under this roof when their father was away. At the most base level, she didn't think she should be made to do things by a woman who wasn't her real mother._

 _The family was divided in twos as they ate their meal, the parents at one end and the younger kids next to them. Mitchum and Caroline brought up the foot of the table. The maid entered to announce, "Mr. Huntzberger, there's someone on the phone for you."_

" _Who?" he asked without looking up or moving._

" _William Rehnquist," the maid said._

 _Elias wiped his mouth with his napkin before tossing it on the table and getting up, perturbed._

 _Mitchum and Caroline looked at each other at the same time and without a thought passing between them, both jumped up to clamber out of the room, Vivienne calling for Caroline not to run. Paying her no attention, she quickly slipped out of her shoes so she wouldn't be heard on the wooden floor as she and Mitchum came to a stop outside the office door._

" _There hasn't been a breach of national security," they heard their father argue with the assistant Attorney General. "The information should have been made available years ago. I'm not going to stop printing the articles."_

" _The Pentagon Papers," Mitchum whispered, to Caroline's nod of agreement. Her head was still tilted toward the door, focused on listening._

" _Go ahead and get your injunction. I'll appeal it."_

 _A ghost of a smile played at the corner of Caroline's lips, excited and proud. Mitchum didn't know how she could hold such reverence for their father when profound anger simmered just under the surface, but somehow she managed._

 _The conversation wasn't long after Elias denied the government official's request. Caroline and Mitchum quickly straightened and left the door, Caroline picking up her shoes and carrying them to the foyer._

" _What are your plans for the day?" she asked as she slipped her feet into the low heels._

" _I'm going to wander around the city, find something to occupy myself."_

 _She pointed a stern finger at him. "Don't forget we're going to that protest tomorrow afternoon."_

" _I won't." They were going to write articles about it and try to sell them to one of the daily papers in the city-one not owned by their father. It was to be a contest to see who could get the most published before they returned to school in the fall. They decided it would be fairest to report about the same topics, to gauge who covered it better._

 _It was a contest with the only prize being bragging rights._

 _Before she could walk out the front door Mitchum said, "Hey, try to have some fun this summer. It's vacation."_

" _I think you're having enough fun for the both of us," she said before dashing off to another day at the office._

XXX

Francie left the cafeteria and walked down the hall, alone, to her locker. She didn't like the lunch hour. What used to be time to chat and catch up with friends at her last school was now a lonely, solitary affair at Chilton. Everyone here knew each other already, they had a group to sit with. Francie didn't, and she wasn't keen on people thinking she was a loner freak. All her old friends were at Catholic high school, not that they'd instantly click if they saw each other again. They had a falling out. She would have to try to fit in here, and make new friends. Even Paris Geller had somehow managed to acquire two companions.

Francie twisted the dial to the last number of the combination until it clicked into place and the locker opened. She pulled out the books from her previous two classes and replaced them with the two for the last classes. She was checking her hair in a small mirror on the locker door when she was distracted by a strange sight farther down the hall. A girl had stopped to talk to Paris Gellar. She wasn't in the freshman class. She must be older, a junior maybe.

"I can't thank you enough for helping with my chemistry homework," the girl said. She had dark shiny hair and the air of someone who was in the in-crowd.

"No problem, Isabella," Paris answered. "I can help you any time, with whatever you need. Really, anything."

Francie narrowed her eyes, watching as Paris prostrated herself before the upperclassman. Who was this girl, and why was Paris doing her academic favors? Did this Isabella know some deep dark secret the freshman didn't want anyone to know? As far as Francie could tell, her crush on Tristan was the only thing she seemed sensitive about. She had shelved the information. It might be useful later.

Isabella handed over a book for another subject, gushing about how amazing it would be if Paris could do one little assignment for her, just this once. She was so busy and all.

"Of course you are," Paris sympathized. "I completely understand how precious your time is, with cheerleading and your other important responsibilities."

Important responsibilities? Curious. The whole exchange was odd.

Francie was interrupted from her observation by Tristan then, "Hey, Sister Mary Frances." He was smirking at her, clearly thinking he was clever.

"You heard three teachers say my name during roll call and you saw me write it on the activity sign ups last week. You think my name is Frances?"

He shifted from one foot to the other. "Well, no. But Frances flowed better. Not that I gave it much thought. It just came to me."

"Sorry, but I don't have any immediate plans to become a nun. They have to take a vow of celibacy, and I'm pretty sure I'm not interested in that. I don't even wear that ring we all got last year when we promised not to do it before marriage." Then she asked, "Would you be interested in that?"

He faltered. "In what?"

"Celibacy."

"Uh, no. Not really."

"Are you sure?" Francie asked, zipping her bag. "I'd fully support your decision. I'll even tell all the Chilton girls you never want to have sex with anyone ever."

His eyes darted left and right. "That's okay, you don't have to go to the trouble. I'm Episcopalian anyway. And technically kind of Jewish."

Her brow creased. "How much is kind of?"

"Half."

"Ah," she said with a nod.

"I could probably just call you Francine." He smirked again. "Unless Carrots is on the table?"

"It isn't. I'm not sensitive about my hair, but that won't stop me from hitting you over the head with whatever object is closest if you called me that."

"Francine it is."

"Francie is fine, actually."

The boy whose locker was next to hers spun his dial, and noticing Tristan said, "Hey, you used to go to Camp Chataguay, right? I think we were in the same cabin one year."

"Oh yeah, I think so. Good to see you again," Tristan said.

"You didn't come back after that fire. Did you guys get kicked out?"

"Pretty much." When he saw Francie's inquiring gaze, he indignantly said, "It was a small fire, and _I_ didn't start it."

"Uh-huh."

"The way campers talked about it the next summer, you'd think the whole building burned down," the other boy said before parting.

Tristan continued to explain, so Francie followed him down the hall. "It was my sister and our cousin. No one got hurt. The four of us got sent to the same camp by accident that summer. And by the end we weren't invited back." He shrugged, stopping at his locker. "It happens."

Francie titled her head to get a better view of the magazine clippings he had taped on the door. "Nice pictures," she commented.

He glanced at the photos of the half-naked women as he traded the book in his hand for another. "Oh, I can't have those in my bedroom, my mom would kill me."

"My mom doesn't like when I put things on my wall either. She says the tape will tear the paint off the wall," Francie said. "Is that your mom's problem too?"

He shook his head. "She would just make me repaint the whole room if she was concerned about that. She'd hate the pictures because she's a feminist." He added, "It's the same reason my sister throws away the swimsuit edition of _Sports Illustrated_ rather than pass it on to me like usual."

"They sound wise."

They filed into their next class, behind a few other students. For some reason Tristan sat behind her in a row next to the windows, mid-way back. He asked, "So which are harder, the nuns or Chilton teachers?"

She looked at him strangely. "What?"

"Weren't all your teachers nuns at your last school?"

"No," she answered with a shake of her head. "I had a few teachers who were nuns—first and fourth grade, and for P.E. But most of them were regular people." Then she shrugged as answer to his question. "They were as strict as the teachers here. But Chilton teachers must lack home lives, to assign us so much homework."

"Yeah, it's a lot."

She took out a spiral notebook and her textbook, adding, "I'm just glad to be allowed to chew gum and write with mechanical pencils."

"It's the small things in life," Tristan said dryly.

XXX

 _Caroline stepped out of the office building and onto the busy New York sidewalk at the end of the day. She squinted in the bright sunlight as she walked over to a corner news stand. She pulled some money out of her pocket and exchanged it for that day's_ Washington Post _._

 _"Do you need a ride?" a voice asked behind her, causing her to jump in surprise and hug her purchase to her chest. "I could take you for a drive."_

 _"No, thank you," she said stiffly. "I have a driver. He should be here soon."_

" _You have a driver? Is your dad the president or something?"_

 _Caroline arched a brow at Alexander Dugray, amused. "No, my father is the opposite of the president."_

 _Alex's forehead creased. "The opposite of Nixon? Would that be Kennedy?"_

" _Kennedy's policies in Vietnam paved the way for Johnson to escalate things." She feigned interest to ask, "Did you know there's a war going on? Or am I giving you some new information today?"_

 _He shot her an annoyed look. "I know all about it."_

" _Oh? Did Marmaduke do a serious one?"_

" _Actually, I caught the body count on the evening news by accident when I was looking for_ Josie and the Pussycats _," he said dryly._

 _She gave him a sidelong look, sizing him up. His tie was already loosened and she could easily imagine him as a disheveled prep school boy. He had a fancy name and graduated from a fancy school. She knew what tribe he belonged to, the one preoccupied with conserving relics from yesteryear and continuing nonsensical traditions just as the generations before had. Distrusting anything new, they desperately clung to the past. "You're a Republican, aren't you?" she asked._

" _Maybe. And you must be . . ." He trailed off, shaking his head. "I don't know what you are."_

" _I have no political leanings. Politicians all lie, regardless of party. I wasn't referring to any specific president, my dad is the opposite of presidents in general. We're journalists," she said matter-of-factly. "You have to rely on the Fourth Estate to find out what's really happening."_

" _That explains your fixation on newspapers, I guess," Alex said, looking down at her paper. "But why are you reading the_ Washington Post _? I thought The Herald-Tribune was the cat's pajamas."_

" _It is. My father works there," she said. "And I will too, after college."_

" _Oh yeah, what's your dad's name? Maybe I've read his articles."_

 _He hadn't. She regarded him, and figuring he wouldn't think to look where her father's name was listed, answered, "Elias Huntzberger." She looked down at the broadsheet in her hands. "But I have a lot of respect for the Post, so some days I sneak a copy."_

" _You sneak a copy," he stated. "Wow, you're quite a rebel."_

 _She faced him. "I'm supposed to be." Unable to help herself and sure she knew the answer, she asked, "Do you know who Katharine Graham is?"_

" _No," he said with a shake of his head._

 _Caroline came across the name when she was 11. She had gotten on Vivienne's last nerve one afternoon after school when she kept using a spoon incorrectly—there were a number of ways to do this, it usually involved eating from it. Her stepmother sent her to her father's office, high above the streets of Herald Square. Elias had sighed and rubbed his forehead after hearing Caroline's account. He flopped that day's paper in front of her, telling her to check for errors—spelling, facts, he wasn't picky. Happy to be here rather than at home learning to be a debutante, she did as she was told. Buried inside the paper, Caroline read a short blurb announcing that the management at the_ Washington Post _had changed hands._

 _After asking a few questions, she learned she had a couple things in common with the woman. She looked around the office, unable to completely stifle a grin. She watched her father behind his desk, concentrating on his important work. When he noticed her, he frowned slightly at her strange expression, to which she smiled conspiratorially, like they shared a secret. He'd offered a small smile before going back to his work. She, too, went back to her task with renewed vigor._

" _She used to live in Mount Kisco," Caroline said. "That's where my family lives."_

" _Up in a castle," he muttered._

" _Her father used to be the publisher of the_ Washington Post _."_

" _Mm," Alex muttered, disinterested._

 _Caroline looked down at The Post again, sure it's publisher also received a call from the government. That was just a day in the life of an powerful person. Feeling the urge to divulge a bit, she said, "The government is trying to stop the Pentagon Papers from being published. They don't want the American people to know they got us into a war we shouldn't be in."_

 _Glumly, Alex said, "It's not like we can go back and change anything at this point. What's done is done."_

 _She frowned at him, incredulous. "What's done is done? The war is immoral. Don't you know what's happening over there?"_

 _Once again, she'd tampered down whatever amusement he may have had for her without trying. "Have_ you _been there?" he asked, rather forcefully._

" _No, but-"_

" _So you don't know." He tugged on her paper, and though it wasn't enough to pull it away, she still grabbed onto it. "_ That's _not being there," he said, anticipating her argument. He gave her a parting scowl before turning to go, his offer of a ride apparently rescinded._

XXX

Tristan followed his grandfather into the house from the garage, setting his books down on the small kitchen table. His parents didn't want Janlen living alone in his big house, so they gave up the master bedroom downstairs and moved upstairs to one of the two extra rooms. After minimal remodeling, there were once again four people living in the house.

Tristan's nanny and Janlen's maid were discharged in exchange for each other's company. Tristan liked his grandfather, but it was still an adjustment to have him around all the time. It meant changing into nice clothes for dinner, church every Sunday morning, and monetary rewards for having a pleasant attitude and good manners.

He wasn't sure what the elderly man did all day by himself. Janlen spent the morning working at his foundation, and spent some time at the club. But Tristan didn't know how much time that amounted to. He supposed his grandfather might sit and read in solitude. It was a mystery.

He went over to the refrigerator and opened the door to peer inside. There was a meal prepared and covered, left by the housekeeper.

"Pork chops are on the menu tonight," Janlen said. "I hope that's all right, I put in a request."

"Sounds good," Tristan said. His parents wouldn't be home until late in the evening. They usually heated up the leftovers for their dinner. His mom would likely look for something else tonight, though. Or settle for the side dishes.

He loosened his tie and tossed his blue blazer over the back of a chair. He looked at his books and contemplated doing the work tonight. Trying to do it in the morning wasn't working so far. He probably would have done better on his geometry assignment if he hadn't rushed through it. And he would have scored higher on the history quiz if he'd studied his notes, though he hadn't done too poorly, able to remember a lot of the teacher's lecture.

"Have we heard from your sister since she started school?"

"No," Tristan said. "But that's normal. She'll come home for Thanksgiving."

"That's quite a ways off. She won't call before then?" Janlen asked, skeptical.

Tristan shrugged. "I don't know, I guess she'll probably call and talk to Mom or Dad. She doesn't come home very much though." She didn't even come back for summer anymore, instead opting to stay at her Williamstown apartment.

Janlen picked up the phone. "Why don't we check up on her?" he asked rhetorically as he dialed. He put it on speaker when she answered. "It's Grandpa, and Tristan," he greeted. "We wanted to make sure your new semester is starting off well and wanted to hear from you before November."

"Oh. It's going fine," Guinevere said. "How's Chilton?"

"Okay, mostly," Tristan answered. Thinking again of the homework load, he asked, "Hey, how did you always get all of your assignments and studying finished before school every morning?"

"What?"

"Remember, you'd always tell me to hurry up when it was time to get to school, because you had to do your trig or write a paper or whatever."

Janlen was frowning at him. "You haven't been doing your homework?"

"I have. Before school starts." He pointed to the phone on the counter between them. "It's what she did. I thought it was cool."

"That's because I _am_ cool."

"No cool person would spend as much time as you railing against _Phantom Menace_ as you did."

"Come on, midichlorians? Obi-Wan already explained the Force in the first movie. It's an energy field created by all living things, and it's where a Jedi gets his powers."

Janlen tilted his head toward Tristan to quietly ask, "Is this the _Star Wars_?"

Tristan nodded. "Tell her you really liked that Jar-Jar Binks."

"That doesn't seem wise."

Guinevere was still talking, "It binds the galaxy together. That's enough explanation. I don't need the physics of it! But you know what? I don't care. If George Lucas wants to ruin his franchise, that's his business. I'm over it."

"I can tell," their grandfather said.

Tristan was resting his chin on his fist, his elbow propped on the counter. "You're right Guinevere, you _are_ cool. Back to how you finished your homework."

There was a pause on the line, his sister apparently trying to remember. "I didn't do _all_ of my work in the morning. I would just finish an assignment or proofread a paper. I did most of it the night before," Guinevere said, taking a lot of the glamour out of high school for Tristan.

"That's really disillusioning," he said flatly.

"Sorry. There isn't time in the morning, and then other people start to arrive, so my concentration really goes," she said. "That's why I had to move out of the dorm after sophomore year—too many people to socialize with in the hall until midnight."

"I've been having that problem too. So you did study."

"Yes, it's necessary. I just didn't do it in public, for all to see."

Sternly, Janlen said, "I think you have some work to do tonight."

Tristan grudgingly agreed. His grandfather went on to regale the game of golf he'd played with a couple friends at the club today. Guinevere politely followed the conversation, knowing the lingo of the game. But of all the sports, golf was her least favorite.

"So who is Tristan in love with?" she asked.

"No one," he said defensively.

"But you've fancied yourself in love with a different girl every other week since you were eight. And it's what, the second week of school? You're right on schedule for a new love interest."

Bemused, Janlen threw him under the bus, "I did see him talking with a girl when I picked him up from school."

"Oh?" Guinevere said, fully interested. "What's her name?"

"Francie, and I'm not in love with her," Tristan insisted. "She's new at Chilton."

"Where did she go before?"

"Immaculate Conception."

"Ooh, a Jesuit schemer?" she asked, mockingly scandalized. "You let him talk to her, Grandpa?"

"It's a changing world, we have to be open to such things," Janlen said.

Tristan gestured toward him, his palms up and brows lowered, wondering why his grandfather was selling him out so willingly. This never happened with the nanny. "We're in the same class at the end of the day and we were waiting for our rides," he said. "That's it."

"I saw them passing notes," Janlen said conspiratorially, enjoying himself.

"It wasn't notes. It was her screen name."

"You'll need to help me with this one, Guinevere. What's a screen name?" Janlen asked into the phone. He wasn't computer savvy.

"They're going to have a conversation online," she explained. "Kind of like what we're doing now, but typing instead of talking."

"Ah, I see. I hope this doesn't get in the way of your studies."

"It won't." Tristan slid his books off the table and grabbed his blazer. Pointedly, he said, "I'm going to my room now. Good bye."

"Bye," Guinevere said brightly.


	7. 1-3

Tristan glanced in the mirror as he finished buttoning his shirt and tucked it in. Leaving his books and blazer here until he had to leave, he made his way out the door and down the hall. When he reached the landing at the top of the stairs, he grabbed his tie off the blue and white striped couch and put it on without stopping.

His parents were already seated at the small kitchen table when he joined them. They were dressed for the office and sipping coffee over their morning newspapers. They had been married for 26 years, and as far as he could tell, still liked each other. It was a rarity. While half the kids in his class had divorced parents, his worked together.

When Tristan joined them at the table, his dad shifted his eyes to wish him a good morning before returning to the _Wall Street Journal_. Even though Tristan was just finishing second grade when Caroline quit working there, he still thought of it as his mom's paper.

Panic set in when he noticed what was sitting next to her—his homework and quizzes from the first week of school. Uh-oh. Where did she get that? She must have looked through the stack on his desk when he was in the shower. He glanced at her nervously, knowing she wouldn't be pleased with his performance, as he sat down in an empty chair and reached for a box of cereal. She would hone in on every error he made.

He pretended like he didn't notice when she put the paper down and pulled his work in front of her. She had obviously waited to look it over in front of him. Even out the corner of his eye he could tell she was frowning. She turned to the next page in the stack and sighed when she saw the grade at the top. When she finished perusing his work, she rested her chin on her hands with her elbows propped on the table, her steel-like blue eyes boring into him. "Would you call this your best work?"

Tristan cleared his throat. "No. I wasn't quite in the swing of things last week. And I rushed some assignments. But I studied a lot last night, so I think I'll do better from now on." He looked down into his cereal bowl, hoping his attempt at self-reflection and improvement plan would stave off her criticism.

"Chilton costs too much to not do your best," she said. "And it's time to start pandering to colleges. Just because Princeton will always reserve a few seats for the stupid sons of rich men doesn't mean you should strive to be one."

Alex lowered his paper to look at his wife. "Maybe he'd like to go to Yale."

"My comment still stands." She turned her attention back to Tristan. "You'll try harder?" It was more command than question.

He nodded and glanced at her. "Yes."

"Good. Be sure to check your work before you turn it in." To his relief, she pulled that day's _New York Times_ out from under the Courant, finished with the morning grilling.

Alex, not one for lecturing, closed his paper and folded it in half before setting it aside. He picked up an envelope from a stack of mail and handed it over to Tristan. "Something came for you."

Tristan accepted it and turned it over to open. Upon read the calligraphy, he saw it was an invitation to a birthday party for one of his classmates next Saturday. "It's an invitation to a party. Do I have to go?" he asked his mother.

Alex answered quicker, "Yes."

Indignant, Caroline said, "He asked me."

"That's because he knows you're more inclined to let him blow it off." He picked up his coffee cup and added, "You're a Dugray only in name."

"It's a free country, he shouldn't have to go to a party if he doesn't want to." She asked Tristan, "Is it for a friend?"

"No, just a classmate. I think we have P.E. together."

She turned back. "See, it's only an acquaintance."

Alex asked Tristan, "Do you already have plans for that night?"

"I could make some."

"He can make some," Caroline repeated, brows raised slightly.

"He was invited and he doesn't have prior plans, so he will make an appearance and thank the host," Alex said.

She gestured to the unimpressive school work. "He needs to stay home and study." Tristan chewed and nodded his agreement. She continued, "Are you suggesting etiquette is more important than his school work?" She asked as though she had genuine interest and fascination about his relentless adherence to good manners.

"No, I'm suggesting he manage his time. Do you honestly believe he's going to stay in and study on a Saturday night anyway?"

"Of course not, Saturday night is for dancing. He'll be busy doing the foxtrot."

Tristan didn't know how to foxtrot.

Alex went on, "We can get a second opinion, if you'd like. Call JD, he went into the office to micromanage Joe. We'll see what he has to say."

Caroline's forehead scrunched up. "He doesn't micromanage. But he will take your side."

Alex raised his hands up. "He's your mentor, not mine."

She looked back at Tristan, resigned. "Well I tried, but it looks like you'll have to go to the party. You are obligated to be polite. Think of it as preparation for all the cocktail parties you'll have to attend in the future."

"Sometimes in life, one must do things one doesn't want to do," Alex said. "It's called being an adult. I say that as a lesson for him and as a reminder for you, dear."

She smirked and picked up her paper. "Waspiest man alive."

He grinned and nodded. "They don't make us the way they used to." Then he stood and took his plate and cup to the dishwasher. "We're leaving for Hong Kong this afternoon," he told Tristan. It would be their fifth trip there this year. "We'll be back Thursday in two weeks." He walked out of the room then to finish getting ready.

Caroline watched him leave and waited to make sure he was far enough away before she leaned in toward Tristan. "It will be Saturday, not Thursday. I'm taking him to dinner in Hanoi before we leave Asia, it's a surprise."

"Okay," Tristan said. He finished his cereal and stood.

"Go get your things and I'll take you to school," Caroline said, returning to the paper.

When she dropped him off at the entrance a little while later, he went in and headed for his locker. He smiled at Paris as he greeted her, but kept moving toward the redhead a few feet away.

"Hey Francie," he said as he walked over to her. Maybe it was just the novelty of a new person, but he liked talking to her. When she turned to him, he asked, "Do you know what you're going to say in your speech for the student representative job?"

"No," she said. "I tried to write something last night but didn't get very far."

"Maybe we could put our heads together and come up with something," he said. "Since there are two spots, we might both win and end up working together. We could tailor our speeches so we'll sound compatible."

"All right, when do you want to meet?"

"Is today after school good? You can come over to my house."

"I'll have to call my dad to ask," she said. "I'll let you know this afternoon."

Tristan nodded. "Okay."

Down the line, Paris slammed her locker shut and stalked away. Her day must be getting off to a bad start, Tristan thought.

XXX

 _Alex parked in the first open spot he could find in the garage and got out of the Mustang. It wasn't his car, but his brother's. Ike had wanted one since he first laid eyes on the first model at the World's Fair. Now it was an inheritance Alex never wanted. He was driving it around now, hoping to fill the emptiness inside of him. It'd been a rough start to the year, made more difficult by his family's inability to express emotions. Sure, they could argue over word pronunciations, but never addressed anything of substance. Decorum dictated they act like everything was perfectly fine._

 _But Alex didn't feel fine, or really anything at all. His graduation from college wasn't joyous for him, knowing Ike never got the same privilege. It was only by luck of the draw. Literally. Now he was just going through the motions of life. He was on his own and had a job, not knowing his purpose in life and feeling like he ought to have one._

 _He exhaled heavily and turned to go to the office for the day. When he walked off the elevator and went toward his desk, he stopped and did a double take at the secretary's station. His day slightly brightened, he grinned and approached. "You look good here."_

 _Caroline Huntzberger glared up at him. "Don't get used to the image. The secretary is out sick so they asked me to take her place for the day." The phone rang and she looked further annoyed as she answered and transferred a call. She firmly told him, "Don't. Say. Anything."_

" _I wasn't going to say a word. But think about it, Caroline. The secretary is very important. She knows everything and the office would fall apart without her."_

" _Yes, well, don't expect me to change my career plans because of your stunning insights."_

 _Alex considered her for a moment. "You're too serious all the time. You're in college, you should have some fun."_

" _There's more to life than having fun."_

 _He wanted to know what she was like outside of the office. She couldn't be like this all the time. There had to be something that made her smile. "There's a function tonight and my parents say I have to go. I thought you could come as my date."_

" _Liar."_

" _I'm not lying. I think you should come with me, it could be fun."_

" _It won't be. It will be exceedingly dull. And I haven't given you any indication that I would want to go anywhere with you_ _—_ _today, tomorrow, or ever," she said. "It's only by unfortunate coincidence that we're both in this office_ _all_ _summer. I think nine to five is more than enough time spent together."_

" _Look, I know we got off on the wrong foot. But I think you'd change your mind about me if we had some one-on-one time, out of the office."_

 _She leveled him a look, like she was really considering him. "No, I don't think I will."_

 _He tilted his head inquisitively. "Did you go to all-girls school?"_

" _Why?"_

" _It makes sense that you're nervous around me if you don't have any experience with men."_

 _He figured out how to make her smile, although it was at his expense. "You consider yourself a man? You're much funnier than I originally thought. But you don't make me nervous. You annoy me." She gestured around the office. "There must be someone else around here you could annoy."_

 _He glanced around. "No, and no one else is nearly as pretty as you." He thought for sure flattery would catch her off guard, especially if she wasn't accustomed to compliments._

 _She frowned slightly. "Does that usually work on girls?"_

 _He opened his mouth, then closed it. "Usually."_

" _Maybe you should stick to the Bryn Mawr girls then. I'm sure they were raised to be charming." She wasn't wrong. The girls at the sister school who came to Princeton for parties were friendly and flirted. But he_ _'d lost interest in them lately_ _. Coming from a family that was pathologically obsessed with appearing chipper at all times, he didn't trust the smiles people wore. It didn't mean they were happy._

 _Caroline Huntzberger wasn't like those girls, or any girl he'd met before. She was clearly one of those new fangled liberated women. She continued, "I was taught the same thing, but I didn't find the lessons useful. I have other things to do in life besides find a husband."_

 _He pointed at her. "Things like working as a reporter?"_

" _Yes, for a while anyway. I'll prove that I'm a competent reporter and then move on to a business department."_

" _That reminds me, I couldn't find your dad's name anywhere in your paper."_

 _She seemed to like the way 'your paper' sounded, the corner of her lips twitching up."Then you didn't look hard enough. It's in there." She changed the subject, "You should get to work. There's a meeting on the schedule for this afternoon."_

XXX

Francie tapped her foot as she listened to the phone ringing and waited for the automated system to pick up. When it did, she dialed her dad's extension and held her breath. When he answered, she asked, "Can I go to a friend's house after school today?" She quickly added, "We're going to work on our speeches for student council."

He sighed on the other end. "What friend?"

She hesitated. He was going to say no. But she sucked it up and answered, "Tristan Dugray."

"And where does Kristen Dugray live?"

Francie almost giggled. He misheard, or had been listening for a girl's name to begin with. No point in rocking the boat now. "Uh, here in Hartford, so it won't be out of the way. I can let you know the address."

"Fine, I'll pick you up at five."

"Okay, bye," she said with a smile.

She anxiously sat through her afternoon classes and then met Tristan on the way outside where parents' cars were lined up. Freshmen and sophomores who couldn't drive yet congregated in groups as they waited.

Tristan pointed to a station wagon, to Francie's surprise. She was expecting something fancier, like a Rolls-Royce maybe. "There's my grandpa," he said, walking over to the car and introducing Francie as they got in.

"Ah, I've heard a lot about you," Janlen Dugray said.

Tristan quickly said, "No he hasn't. He's only heard a little—not very much at all."

When they pulled away from the school, Francie watched the giant houses pass by outside the window from the back seat, eagerly waiting to see the inside of one. They were in the car for a little more than ten minutes when they pulled into a paved driveway. It was a light gray brick house with tinder framed windows. It was large and very nice, but Francie wasn't sure if it qualified as a mansion. There was a detached garage across the driveway from the main house and it looked like there was a room above it. Maybe it was a guest house.

Tristan's grandpa hit a button on a remote clipped to the sun visor and pulled into the three car garage of the main house. A Mercedes and an Audi were already parked next to each other. That's more like it, Francie thought, eying the luxury cars as they got out.

Tristan led them into the house through the kitchen which had white laminate cabinets. It was spacious and opened up to a larger dining room table. A cabinet with silver and fine china sat next to it along the wall.

Janlen turned to Tristan. "I will be in the den, you two stay in here," he said sternly before leaving them.

"So what do you think we should say in our speeches?" she asked, setting her bag on the table.

"I was thinking about things I want to change about the school, you know, make some campaign promises," he said. He stacked up several papers and pushed them to the edge of the table so they could spread out their notebooks. He hadn't lied when he said newspapers were a thing for his family.

"Do you know what the kids in our class want?" she asked.

"Well, not specifically. Less homework? I think we all want that."

"I'm pretty sure that kind of demand only works when you're running for student office on TV," Francie said. "I'm going to say that I'll listen to their concerns, and take them to the student council meetings for consideration."

"That sounds good," he said, jotting it down.

"Hey! That was my idea. You have to come up with something else. List your strengths and explain how they would help you represent the class."

He nodded. "Fine."

They each focused on their own speech, occasionally stopping to ask a question or read a line out loud. Francie felt she had more to prove in her address. They didn't know her. Tristan was probably a shoe-in. For some reason he didn't realize this, or was being nice in not mentioning it, but it was true.

Francie finished a paragraph and decided it was probably enough after she added some good closing remarks. She sighed and looked around the room. "Were those your parents' cars in the garage?"

"Yeah, why?"

"It's really quiet. Are they here?"

"No, they left for Hong Kong today," he said. "They're probably still on the plane. It's a long flight."

"What are they going to do there?"

"Work," he answered, loosening his tie until he could pull it off. "They work for a private equity firm."

"So what does that mean they do?"

"Uh, when a company isn't doing well, it can have a private equity firm buy them out," he said. "They strategize and go restructure the company. Like the management and how they do things."

"That sounds important."

Tristan shrugged. "I guess."

"And it makes them really wealthy, doesn't it?"

"Rich," he corrected.

Francie frowned at him. "That's what I said."

"No, you said wealthy. We say rich."

"What's the difference?"

He shrugged again. "I don't know, semantics." Then he thought of another, "We give presents, not gifts."

"And you eat potaytoes, not potahtoes?"

"That's actually debatable. Don't ever use the word bargain though."

She smiled and laughed a little. She couldn't tell if he was serious. "Any others I should know about?"

"Not off the top of my head, but I'll let you know if something comes to me."

Francie asked, "Do you have a maid? I was hoping you would."

"We don't have servants, just a housekeeper that comes to clean a couple days a week," Tristan answered, still writing in his notebook. He glanced up at her. "Sorry to disappoint you."

She grinned. "I actually thought everyone in our class lived in a mansion."

"Some do. But there are different kinds of rich."

Francie wouldn't mind being any kind of rich. "What kind are you?"

"My dad's a Wasp," Tristan said simply, as though it explained something. He asked, "Should we practice reading our speeches to each other?"

"You'll just steal more of my ideas."

"I won't, I promise," he said, holding up his hand like a Boy Scout. "Then we won't be as nervous in front of the whole class."

"Fine, but if I hear any of this when it's your turn tomorrow, I'm coming for you."

He smirked. "Okay, I've been warned. I'll even go first."

They read through their speeches a couple times, until they were interrupted by beeping. "It's my dad, he's here," she said, glancing at her pager. She slid her notebook and pen into her bag and stood. "Thanks for having me over. Your house is lovely."

"Oh, that's another one, and you got it right."

"I got what right?"

"You said house and not home."

"Okay," she said slowly. "It's been fun, and a little confusing. I'll see you tomorrow."

"May the best person win."

XXX

 _As the meeting let out late in the afternoon, Alex caught up to Caroline. "Hey, could I borrow those notes you were taking? I didn't get them all." He went on quickly, "I know you aren't here to be the secretary, but I saw you writing fast so I'm sure you didn't miss anything. Could I borrow them, please?"_

 _She briefly gave him a grim look, but handed over her notebook. "I control the memory of the meeting, you know."_

" _I do know. Thank you," he said, nodding and gesturing with the notes in his hand. He turned to go to his desk, but then grabbed her arm. He frowned down at the notes. "What is this?" He glanced up at her._

" _The minutes to the meeting. It's all there."_

 _He held them up for her to see. "I believe you. But Caroline, this isn't legible."_

" _It's my shorthand."_

" _Okay_ _, but even if I could decode it, it's still so_ _. ._ _." He couldn't say sloppy,_ _though it_ _was accurate. Instead, he teased, "Didn't they teach you handwriting at Miss Porter_ _'_ _s?"_

 _She crossed her arms and frowned. "It isn't a finishing school anymore. How did you know I went there?"_

 _He smirked. "It was a guess. But I was right?"_

 _She shrugged, ever unimpressed with him. "Sure, but it would be hard to guess wrong."_

" _Why? There are lots of other girls' schools_ _—_ _Emma Willard, Brearley, Ethel Walker."_

" _See there? You guessed another."_

 _Perplexed, he asked, "Which one?"_

" _Ethel Walker, for two and a half years. Then they asked me to leave. So did Westover and Dana Hall after that."_

 _He stared, speechless for a moment. "You got kicked out of three schools?"_

" _It's not hard to do," she said lightly._

" _Too much structure?" he asked. "No wonder you go to Sarah Lawrence."_

 _She narrowed her eyes slightly. "That isn't why. Have you ever been to Vassar? The whole campus is deathly silent. It's chilling."_

 _For a second, he pictured the girl in front of him as a wild, fast teenager, rebelling against school authorities and causing trouble for the sake of causing trouble. The image excited him, but it didn't seem true. He pegged her as the valedictorian type. "What did you do to get kicked out?"_

" _From where?"_

 _All of them, and for that matter, why not Miss Porter's? He settled for one, "Ethel Walker."_

 _She shrugged again. "I didn't do anything."_

" _They kicked you out for no reason?" he asked, doubtful._

" _No, I got kicked out for doing nothing. I stopped going to breakfast, and chapel, and study hall, and then class_ _es_ _. It took some time, but I eventually racked up enough demerits."_

 _He needed to know more. No, not just more, but everything. "You just stopped going?"_

 _She didn't say anything immediately as she reflected on her former self. Her eyes were pools of sorrow now. It was rude to stare, but he couldn't look away from her display of genuine emotion. "I was angry, and I didn't see the point in any of it." She cast her eyes downward. "I . . . I forgot my purpose. But I found it back."_

 _What was she so angry about? She looked more melancholy than angry. And what happened at the other schools? He was dying to know. "You know what your purpose is?"_

" _Yes."_

" _You're only 19."_

" _So? I was born into a certain . . . privilege," she said evasively. "I need to live up to the responsibility."_

" _We're all born into privilege," Alex said. "It's a privilege to be alive." He didn't always know that, but now he was aware._

 _Caroline looked at him silently, and for a moment he was sure he made a connection with her, found common ground. She nodded once, slowly. Then she looked around the office stoically and the bubble they were in must have burst, because she changed the subject, "You were right this morning about the secretary. This place would fall apart without her." She continued, "But I don't want her job, I want to fall apart when_ my _secretary is out."_

" _Reporters get personal secretaries?"_

 _She looked back at him again, almost amused. There was definitely a small light in her eye, replacing the sadness that was there before. She asked, "Did you figure out who Katharine Graham is?"_

 _He frowned. "You already told me. Her dad was the publisher of the Post."_

" _Yes, and now_ she _is. She runs the company," Caroline said. "She's the most influential woman in Washington D.C."_

" _Oh. Okay," he said slowly. "Good for her."_

 _She was quiet for a second, watching him, then said, "Just think about. It's right in front of you."_

 _His brow furrowing, he asked, "What is?"_

 _She didn't answer, but took the notes back. "Give me five minutes, and I'll have these typed up."_

 _He watched her go before turning back to his own desk, feeling he'd made progress with her. Or maybe he was just on the verge. He was feeling more hopeful when he went to her for the promised notes, but it was replaced with anxiety when she took her purse out of a drawer, ready to leave._ " _So where did we land on that function tonight?"_ _he asked._

" _What do you mean?"_

" _Do you want a ride, or do you want the address for your driver?"_

 _Her brows lowered, but she looked more amused than annoyed. "I'm not going with you at all." She stood in front of him, where he was blocking her way. "If you'll excuse me, I'm late for a protest."_


	8. 1-4

_Mitchum and Caroline snuck through the back door of the house undetected by anyone else who might be on the first floor and quietly went up the back stairs. They came to her room first, and she disappeared behind her door as he continued on to his own. When he got there, he left his article on his desk and grabbed some clothes before heading out to the bathroom for a shower._

 _He was finished and dressed a little while later and headed back down the hall, but heard a crashing noise from his younger sister's room, followed by her squeal. Knocking and calling her name first, Mitchum let himself in._

 _Kassie was on the floor, apparently attacked by a pile of her own clothes. She looked up at him sheepishly. "Oh, hi."_

" _Hi," he said, shoving the clothes off her and offering his hand._

" _Thanks."_

 _He looked around at the mess all over her room. She had her clothes separated into piles, seemingly by color. "What are you doing?" he asked with a frown._

 _She looked around too. "I was just going through my things, taking inventory. I want to get rid of some stuff."_

 _Mitchum frowned. "Just all of a sudden?_

 _Kassie hesitated, like she had a reason but was afraid to tell him what it was. He softened and gestured toward her bed. "What's wrong?"_

 _She sat down next to him. "You know how Caroline always tells me I look like our mom? And how lucky I am?"_

" _Yeah," Mitchum replied slowly, wondering if Caroline had said anything like that lately. He had his doubts. Kassie did look like her, their mother. Mitchum took after her too, with his blond hair and blue eyes. Caroline always used to lament how she didn't have pretty blond hair like them. He surmised she might not mind so much anymore._

 _Kassie looked down, trying to find the words, then she looked back at him. "I-I think I remind Dad of her, but I don't think he wants to be reminded." She quickly added, "I could be imagining it though."_

" _What makes you think that?"_

 _Mitchum's heart started to pound too fast in his chest, he was sure his sister could hear it. He and Caroline had argued about this. They were usually in sync and worked well together, but on this, they didn't see eye to eye. Mitchum held his breath. If Caroline told Kassie what really happened, he was going to give his big sister an earful. Kassie was too young and innocent, she didn't need the burden of the truth. Not when the truth was so unsettling._

 _Kassie's brow furrowed in frustration as she went on, "It's like he's mad at her, and that's not fair. She died. It was an accident."_

 _He felt tense, but nodded._

 _She looked at him again. "So it doesn't make sense for Dad to be mad at her." He could see she was carefully choosing her next words, "I think-sometimes-I feel like Dad doesn't look at me, and I think it might be because I look like her."_

 _He was struck with feelings of guilt and anger all at once. He wanted to protect his sister, shield her from the ugly world. He didn't mean for her to be confused about their dad's behavior toward her, Mitchum had no idea this was happening. Elias used to get mad at Caroline for bringing up their mom. He didn't want to talk about it and she did. Direct anger at direct questioning._

 _Mitchum didn't realize Kassie was an indirect victim of Elias's anger, and for something she couldn't control. He understood, but it didn't make it right. He considered letting her in on the secret, but decided against it. Caroline had insisted their sister was old enough and deserved to know the truth, but she was wrong. She couldn't even handle it herself, and she was 16. She ran off the rails. She had questions that no one had the answers to, and didn't let things go._

" _He doesn't like to think about her," Mitchum said. Elias made it pretty obvious. He had the everything of their mother's removed from the house shortly after the funeral. His three children were the only trace of her left._

 _Kassie shook her head. "It's not fair, I can't help that I look like her. I barely even remember her. I don't remember lighting the menorah at Hanukkah, and I don't remember crying when she died."_

 _Those were all true memories, but Caroline was the one keeping them alive, refusing to let anyone to forget._

" _We all handled her dying differently," he said, staring across the room. "Dad got rid of all of Mom's stuff and won't talk about it. Caroline decided she was our boss, and has to look after us-including Dad." She kept an eye on him, making sure he took medicine if he got so much as the sniffles. "She wanted-wants everyone to remember our mom." He figured it was harder on a girl, to lose her mother. "You cried for days."_

 _Kassie quietly asked, "What about you?"_

 _He glanced at her. "I promised to behave."_

 _The corner of her lips turned up. "How did that work for you?"_

 _He grinned a little. "Not well, but I was five. I was trying to make a bargain. I thought if I was really good and didn't get into any trouble, she might come back." He swallowed hard. "I don't know who I thought was going to bring her back. Santa Claus?" He shook his head. "There is no Santa Claus."_

 _She looked sad for him. "Five is young."_

 _He just shrugged._

 _She sighed heavily and was quiet for a minute. Then, "Vivienne has been more of a mother to me than my actual mother." She timidly glanced at Mitchum. "Sometimes I think I should call her Mom."_

" _If that's what you want to do, then go ahead."_

" _But what about-"_

" _Don't worry about her," he said. "Caroline's issues belong to Caroline, not you. If she has a problem, I'll talk to her."_

 _Kassie smiled softly. "You're a good big brother," she said, putting an arm around him in a half hug. Then she took a look at him inquisitively. "When did you guys get home last night?"_

" _About twenty minutes ago. We got arrested at the protest. They let us go this morning."_

 _She shook her head and tsked at him._

 _He shrugged again. It wasn't the first time they were apprehended while getting a story. "Hey, if you ever get in trouble with the law, just call and we'll be there to post your bail. You should take comfort in that."_

 _She smiled and laughed softly. With a pleading gleam in her eye, she asked, "Do you remember what color our mom wore the most?"_

" _What?"_

" _Did she have a favorite color that she always wore? I want to throw out anything I have that reminds Dad of her. I don't want him to relive painful memories if I can help it."_

 _She was sweet._

 _He looked around and tried to think back. "Uh, I remember she had a few casual dresses she liked to wear, but in different colors." And he remembered the smell of her hair spray when she and Elias went out for the evening. She always looked pretty when they went out._

 _Kassie stood up, frowning in deep concentration, and held up a finger. She pulled out a dress from one of the stacks and held it up for him to see._

" _Yeah, like that."_

" _I have four," she said eagerly, turning quickly to another stack. "I won't wear them anymore."_

 _He helped her dig through her stacks until there was a knock at the door and Caroline poked her head in. "Are you having a party without me?" She joined them in the room. She was cleaned up and dressed, one would never know she spent the night in jail._

" _No," Kassie said, her eyes anxiously shifting to their brother._

" _She was just pulling out some things that don't fit anymore," Mitchum said._

" _Oh," Caroline said. She looked at one of the dresses. "That one fit you last week."_

" _I don't like it anymore," Kassie said quickly._

" _All right," Caroline said, not sounding convinced. She turned her attention to Mitchum and held up a sheet of paper. "You need to clean up your article. The writing is sloppy."_

" _Where did you get that?"_

" _Your room."_

" _Six thousand square feet and a guy can't get any privacy."_

" _Calm down, it was on your desk. I didn't see anything," she said. "This lede you wrote is a monstrosity. You aren't Proust."_

" _Mm-hmm, but how's my reporting?"_

 _She sighed. "The reporting is excellent."_

" _And what do all editors want-excellent writing or excellent reporting?"_

" _Reporting." He grinned, self-satisfied. She continued, "But you're going to be my top editor one day, and I don't want people accusing me of nepotism. You need to be able to edit your own articles now so I know you're up to the task."_

" _I'm too young to be the executive editor," Mitchum said. "I have 25 years at least before I need to worry about anything but reporting." He gave Kassie a conspiratory look. "I reported the hell out of that protest."_

" _Fine. We'll let Dad have a say. Are you two ready for breakfast?"_

 _The three siblings left the room together and went downstairs to the dining room, where the adults and Fox already sat. He perked up slightly as the three filed in, perhaps feeling left out. Kassie sat across from him and started chatting. Caroline could think she was in charge all she wanted, Kassie was the real glue that held them all together._

 _She sat her article next to Mitchum's in front of their father's place at the table before she sat down._

" _You need to clean up your sentences," Elias told Mitchum sternly after he'd frowned over the piece. "Subject-verb-object." He impatiently jabbed his finger at the paper to punctuate his words. "You aren't an English major, stop writing like one."_

 _Across the table, Caroline mouthed, 'I told you.' About hers, their father said nothing._

 _He wasn't there long, before he had to head to the office. Caroline went over to grab both articles and smugly told Mitchum, "I guess mine was better."_

XXX

 _Caroline was at the typewriter, back in her corner desk now that the secretary had returned. She jumped when someone appeared at her side. Alexander Dugray, of course. She sighed. "Can I help you, Alexander?"_

" _Yes, call me Alex."_

" _I'll call you your given name."_

 _He sighed. "How was the protest?" he asked, leaning back against the desk so he could face her._

" _Fine, until the police showed up. But I got some insightful interviews while we sat in jail."_

" _You got arrested?"_

" _I just said the police showed up."_

" _So you stuck around to get apprehended? I thought reporters just observe."_

" _Sometimes. Other times we want to experience what we're writing about." Alex was quiet for a minute, either stunned silent or imagining her in a jail cell. She asked, "Did you come over here for a reason?"_

" _Oh, yeah. You'll never guess who was at that function I went to last night."_

" _You're right, I won't. But somehow I'll live." She typed a couple more sentences before pausing._

" _It was your mom. She was there last night."_

" _No she wasn't," Caroline said without missing a beat._

" _Well there was a woman who went by the name Vivienne Huntzberger, and she introduced herself as the wife of Elias Huntzberger. You said a guy with the same name is your dad."_

" _He is. But just because a woman is married to him does not make her my mother." She kept her eyes on the typewriter, trying to indicate her boredom with him and his chosen subject. Unfortunately, he didn't take a hint._

" _So you have a stepmother."_

" _It appears I do."_

" _Is she an evil stepmother?"_

 _Caroline tossed him an inpatient look. "Vivienne lacks the gumption to be evil. Although I admit the coming out process was cruel and unusual punishment."_

" _I'm sure you hated that, being on display for eligible bachelors-and for an archaic mating ritual," he said with an air or sarcasm, apparently assuming he knew her feelings on the matter. "Silly tradition."_

" _Sorry to disappoint you, but I'm not naive enough to think it has anything to do with marriage anymore. It's just social signaling," she said. "My family has an image to maintain, and participating in the deb circuit is a way to let everyone know we've reached the upper echelons of society. Whereas your sisters would come out so your family can feel relevant even though it no longer is." She lifted her eyes to him and smirked evilly. "Welcome to the new world order."_

 _The sun had set on families like Alexander Dugray's. They likely still maintained bragging rights on some ancestor or another who had achieved greatness upon arriving to the country on the Mayflower. No one could take that away from them, but their glory days were long behind them. Their money and influence had all but dried up in recent years._

 _Alex looked a bit annoyed. "I don't have any sisters. Only brothers, four."_

 _Five boys? That was too many. "Oh, well then. Don't worry, you can always marry a rich woman, if one will have you."_

 _He ignored her and said, "I heard people talking about your dad. They said he's the publisher of_ The New York Herald-Tribune _."_

" _That's probably because it's how Vivienne introduces herself-wife of the publisher. It's embarrassing."_

" _I guess that's why you keep bringing up that woman from the Post. Her dad was the publisher and he passed the job onto her. So with your dad the publisher of the Herald-Tribune-"_

" _I'm going to run the company next, yes," she said, unable to keep full control of her smile._

" _I'll be sure to tell people the most powerful woman in New York served me coffee when she was in college."_

" _I know you have to be polite, but don't do me any favors. Tell them I was terrible at it." For a second, she wasn't completely annoyed with Alexander. "You're wrong about one thing. Eugene Meyer didn't give the paper to Katharine, he gave it to her husband. It defaulted to her after he died."_

" _Ah-ha, and that's why you aren't looking for a husband."_

 _Caroline frowned at him. "What?"_

" _You don't want to wait around for your husband to die before you can be in charge. So you aren't getting married at all."_

" _No, that isn't why. I don't want to get married because people lie." She continued, "Just because two people stand up in front of everyone they know and make promises to each other doesn't mean they'll both keep those promises."_

 _Alex looked like he wanted to say something, ask a question, maybe. But he probably knew he'd only receive an unpleasant answer, so he remained silent._

 _She said, "Katharine Graham's husband didn't just die. He shot himself." Suicide was prevalent in prominent newspaper families. Being at the top of the societal food chain wasn't a safeguard against tragedy._

" _Oh. That must have been awful for her."_

 _Caroline nodded once, solemnly. "It's a terrible thing to happen to a family." She quietly said, "I have work to do."_

 _Alex's gaze lingered on her for a moment before he stood back up to leave her alone._

XXX

Francie rested her cheek on her fist as she glared down at the student newspaper. It was the first issue of the _Franklin_ for the school year. There were two pictures on the front page-Paris and Tristan. They had won the student council positions a couple weeks ago. Francie had lost to Paris Geller. There was an accompanying article, where the girl was quoted, saying how she and Tristan had a history that went back to kindergarten, and how they'd make a good team. For words on a page, Francie could still hear the smugness in the other girl's tone.

She rolled her eyes. Paris just had name recognition among their classmates. Like Tristan had said, a lot of them went to elementary school together. So she sailed by this time. Next time, the class would be tired of her hyper-intense personality and be more open to an alternate choice.

She sat the paper aside and pulled out her books and notes for some intense Sunday afternoon studying. She should have been more careful about where she sat that school paper, because her dad picked it up to skim.

"Would Tristan Dugray be related to Kristen Dugray?" he asked, flopping the _Franklin_ in front of Francie.

"Who's Kristen Dugray?" she asked. "There is no Kristen Dugray. Well, I guess there could be one out there somewhere. But I don't know her."

"Then whose house did you go to when you were working on your speech the other week?"

"Tristan's. Remember when I asked if I could go to his house? You said yes."

"I thought he was a girl."

"Well he isn't. Tristan is a boy from my class. I guess you misheard me when I called."

Her dad didn't look happy. "I guess so." He didn't look away from her. "You know you aren't allowed to date."

Francie's younger sister, Erica, had been sitting on the couch watching a movie, said, "If Francie gets to date before she's 16 then I do, too." Erica kept tally of such things.

"No one is dating."

"I know," Francie said. "What does that have to do with anything? We worked on our speeches, that's it. It was not a date."

From the next room, her mother was making dinner. But she looked up to say, "You can't just go over to a boy's house without us knowing. I don't care if his parents are okay with it."

"His parents weren't even there," Francie said, and unfortunately, out loud.

Her mom and dad both stared at her, incredulous. "What do you mean they weren't there?"

Francie shook her head slightly. "They're in China for work." Before they could lecture her more, she quickly added, "His grandpa was there the whole time, and we stayed in the dining room."

"You should have told Dad Tristan was a boy when he misheard," Erica said. She always did this when Francie did something wrong-told her what she should have done, which was only the opposite of what Francie _did_ do. She wasn't a sage 11 year old with superior judgment. Hindsight just happened to be 20/20.

Francie's parents were mad at her for the rest of the night, and grounded her from the phone for two weeks. They didn't seem to realize yet that she didn't have anyone at Chilton to call. So she quietly accepted this punishment.

"My parents are mad at you," she told Tristan when she saw him in the cafeteria the next morning at school.

He raised a brow. "At me? For what?"

"For not being a girl."

"Where they under the impression that I was?"

"Sort of. My dad misheard me on the phone and thought I said I was going to Kristen's house."

"Oh, yeah, that happens."

"It does?"

"Yeah, I think there's an upper classman named Kristen or something, because sometimes in between classes, if someone calls her name, I look up." When Francie smiled he added, "Every time. Why do your parents care that I'm a guy?"

She gave him a sidelong glance. "They're strict about boys. I'm not allowed to date-not that I gave them any indication that we were dating. I just told him you were a friend. And I told him nothing happened at your house-just school stuff."

"What does that mean, you can't date? You're in high school."

She shrugged. "It means I can't have a boyfriend until I'm 16."

He stared. "Are you serious?"

"Yes. It's the house rule. Kind of like how my sister and I aren't allowed to watch _The Simpsons_ , except that one doesn't have an expiration date. Don't you have any rules at your house?"

"Mainly just the one," he said. "My sister and I have to move out after college, freeloading off our parents isn't an option. We have to go out into the world and sink or swim."

Francie stared this time, then her eyes narrowed. "Your only rule is to get a job when you grow up? That's not a rule, it's the circle of life. Everyone has to do that."

"Well, some kids float on family money after school and just bum around aimlessly. I'm not allowed to do that. I have to contribute to society and live on my own."

She shook her head. "Poor little rich boy."

He grinned. "So hypothetically, what if you really like a guy? Would your parents make an exception?"

"I don't think so, but I haven't had a reason to ask."

"You want to date, though, right?"

"Like, in general? Or is there someone in particular I want to date?"

Tristan hesitated for a moment, then said, "Just, in general."

She shrugged. "I don't need to date just to date," she said. "It'd have to be because I really like someone."

"Do you?"

"Do I what?"

"Like anyone, from school?"

She gave him a wary look, wondering if he was beating around the bush to get her to admit some profound feelings for him. "It's still pretty early. I'm not sure I know anyone well enough yet." Then she said, "I guess it's safe to say _you're_ allowed to date."

"Oh yeah. I've had lots of girlfriends."

She chuckled. "Did your mom drive you to the movies?"

"No," Tristan said indignantly. "There was Becky, my camp girlfriend for two summers. We sat by each other at the campfire at night, and went to the talent show together."

"Uh-huh," she said, amused.

"And I kissed half the girls from my elementary class."

"Well, I'm very impressed," she said sarcastically. "I'm sure I'll hear about your new girlfriend any day now." She gave him a parting glance before going on her way, and thought about how she'd really feel if she heard rumors about who Tristan was dating. Just the idea gave her a twinge of jealousy.

Oh well, there was nothing she could do about it.

She was standing at her open locker, trading some books when Paris and her two lackeys passed by.

"It's a shame you lost your bid for student council, Francine," Paris said. "Here I was thinking we might become best friends. Too bad you came in dead last."

"Don't worry about me, there's always next year," Francie said, overly cheerful. She looked around. "Shouldn't you be sucking up to that upper class girl? How will you ever make the cheerleading team if you can't get her to like you?"

"Paris doesn't want to be a cheerleader," the brunette, Madeline, said. "She wants to be a Puff."

Paris glared at her friend and then put on a fake smile for Francie. "I'm not worried, I'm a shoe-in. I just feel sorry for people like you who have no chance of getting into prestigious groups on campus."

"Save your pity for someone who needs it."

"Like who?" Paris asked, mockingly. "A charity case, like someone here on scholarship?"

Louise chimed in, "I'd be too embarrassed to show my face."

Francie's face flushed and she slammed her locker shut. "I'd love to stay and chat, but I have class." She'd get even with Paris Geller one day.


	9. 1-5

_It was the end of the day, and Alexander Dugray was just getting to a good stopping point in his work. He hummed a song, quietly singing out loud, "Sweet Caroline, bum, bum, bum." By the end of every day at the office, he invariably had Neil Diamond stuck in his head. He leaned back in his chair until he saw the girl with the song's namesake. He muttered, "She isn't even sweet."_

 _He slowly picked up his things, glancing over at Caroline at the copy machine. She looked bored as she watched the papers spit out the side of the machine. Alex put his jacket on and meandered over to her corner desk to wait for her. There were two articles sitting next to the typewriter. Some mornings she diligently typed before she was asked to do some office chore, apparently it was a personal task. He picked them up and started reading. Surprise surprise, it was about the war._

 _He was just finishing up the second article when Caroline interrupted him. "Hey, those aren't yours." She snatched them away from him._

" _Sorry, they were just sitting here," he said. "They're pretty good. Did you write them?"_

" _One of them."_

 _He pointed to the first article he read. "That one."_

" _How could you tell?"_

" _You're against the war, and it came out in your article. It's not the most objective news story ever written."_

 _She frowned down at it. "It isn't objective?"_

" _Not really. I could practically hear your voice when I read it. I can tell where your sympathies lie."_

 _She still looked concerned, but said, "Well, sometimes you have to take a stand when something shouldn't be happening. There can be a right side of an argument."_

" _That might be true, but I don't want to hear the opinion of an uppity 19 year old girl who hasn't been anywhere or done anything," he said, to her growing annoyance. "Your thoughts on the subject aren't newsworthy."_

 _She glared at him before frowning down at her article again._

" _The second article is better. Who wrote that one?"_

" _Mitchum. I just rewrote it for him. I always have to rewrite his when I type it up." She angrily muttered to herself, "And the writing doesn't even matter. Why didn't Dad tell me mine had problems? I have to fix it."_

 _Alex stiffened at the mention of Mitchum. He eased back a step. "Hey, I'm sorry."_

 _She looked back up at him. "Sorry about what?"_

" _For flirting with you, and asking you to come with me to that function a couple weeks ago. I didn't know."_

 _Her brow creased. "Okay," she said slowly. "You didn't know what?"_

" _That you have a boyfriend."_

 _She blinked. "What?"_

" _When I asked you to that function, I didn't know you had a boyfriend. I'll leave you alone."_

" _Good, but what boyfriend?"_

" _Mitchum," he said, gesturing to the second article in her hand._

 _She brightened, amused now. It was in sharp contrast from her usual demeanor. "Ha, now that's new. People mistake us for twins sometimes, but boyfriend, I haven't heard that one."_

 _Alex's brows furrowed. "He isn't your boyfriend?"_

 _She shook her head. "Mitchum is my brother. He's not very much younger than me and we're in the same grade, so people always think we're twins."_

 _Caroline had a brother. She had a brother? How was she getting her father's company if the man had a son? Maybe the women in her family didn't have son-and-heir mentality. Things were changing, after all. Women were joining the workforce now. Elias Huntzberger might be progressive. He stopped this line of thinking to focus on the important thing here: Caroline didn't have a boyfriend._

" _He's a Yale man, like our dad," she continued. "I'm going to make him the editor of the Herald-Tribune when I'm the publisher. We'll be a team."_

 _Alex nodded his head once in understanding. "So it doesn't matter if his article is better, you're going to be running the business side of things."_

 _She bristled. "His isn't better. He just-he wants to write about politics and domestic policy after college. He always talks about going out in the world to write about what's happening. He'd be reporting from Vietnam right now if he wasn't stuck in school."_

 _Alex clenched his jaw and kept quiet at anyone's naive wish to go there when they didn't have to._

" _And I'm not sure if I'm going to specialize in one subject," she said. "So it makes sense he'd be more objective or_ slightly _better. I don't have anything to worry about." She did not sound convinced. She stood in quiet contemplation for a moment before she asked, "What did you come over here for, besides to go through my personal property?"_

" _I actually wanted to bring something to your attention, since you seemed to overlook it."_

" _What's that?"_

" _If you aren't planning on getting married, it raises the issue of heirs. Who will you pass the company onto if you don't have children?"_

 _She waved a hand. "I'm not worried about that. Mitchum will have kids and I'll pick one of them. I know they'll have the chops for it, having Mitchum for a father," she said confidently. "He'll find a girl to marry eventually. He's just busy . . . sampling, for the time being."_

" _Well, he's young. He might be more interested in looking for a wife after college."_

 _Caroline eyed Alex suspiciously. "_ You _should look somewhere else."_

" _Please. You're obviously not marriage material." She was only standing a foot away from him. Close enough that he could grab her and kiss her. It could be the game changer he needed. "It would make my mother shudder if I brought you home to meet her."_

 _Her stare was withering. "Don't forget that."_

XXX

"I'm looking forward to the new year," Janlen commented as he slowed down to pull into the driveway after picking up Tristan from school. "We'll switch roles and you can be my chauffeur." Tristan was just a few short months away from his learner's permit. The idea of freedom excited him.

There was a car occupying Janlen's spot in the garage-his sister's Beemer. "Guinevere's here?" Tristan asked.

"It looks that way."

Tristan unbuckled and reached for the door. "I'll move her car for you."

Janlen raised a brow at him. "Can you?"

"I can back it up," he said. Going forward would be more problematic.

He hopped into the red car and adjusted the seat back a couple inches, pleased to note he was getting taller. Blink 182's 'What's My Age Again' blared from the radio when he started the ignition, and he turned it down before grabbing the gear shift to slip it into reverse. He kept an eye on the rearview mirror as he eased the car back across the driveway, leaving the car parked in front of the detached garage.

Once inside the house, he glanced around eagerly as he tossed his blazer on a chair and books on the table.

"I found her at the computer," Janlen told him.

Tristan went to the back of the house where a desk was in a corner. "'Sup, G," he said with a half grin as he took a seat in a chair next to the desk.

The corner of Guinevere's mouth quirked up at his greeting. "Hey."

"I didn't know you were coming back from school."

"It's fall break and I don't have a cross country meet this weekend," she said. "I need to pick some clips to go with my resume. Most of my articles are here." She gestured to a shoe box full of newspaper clippings on the side of the desk.

"Already? It's only October."

"Yeah, but Mom told me to get started over summer and I didn't. Now I have a ton of articles to go through to find the best ones," she said. "Hopefully I can whittle it down to six or seven by December."

"Are you going to pass out your resume at the Christmas party?"

"No. But I'll feel better to have it ready, just in case someone wants me to send them a copy."

Tristan leaned forward to peek in the box. That was sure to be a tedious task. Her college paper only had a weekly edition, so she supplemented her work by covering news for communities in the area. Just the idea of rereading a box of articles reaffirmed to Tristan that he didn't want to go into that particular family business.

He look up at her. "There's a home football game tonight. Do you want to go?"

She thought about it for half a beat. "Sure."

An hour later they were heading out to her car, Tristan in jeans and one of Guinevere's old Chilton hoodies. She let him have it in exchange for one of his sweaters that he'd recently grown out of. After stopping for a bite to eat, they pulled into the parking lot at school. There were plenty of spots open, since the game wouldn't start for another hour. This was his life when Guinevere went here. If he wanted to go to a game of any kind, they got there way before it started and stayed until well after the game ended.

They had no sooner found good seats on the bleachers that his sister was up and making her way down to the coach, who was watching on the sidelines while the team warmed up. As the stands filled, Tristan waved over some friends from his class. A decent group, boys and girls, had assembled by kickoff time. They paid attention to about half of the game between socializing. There was plenty to gossip about by now, which consisted a lot of who was dating who.

There were a couple minutes left on the clock when Tristan decided to visit the concession stand. He met his sister on the way and offered to get her some hot chocolate. The line wasn't long yet, since most people were waiting for half time before getting up. He turned with two styrofoam cups a few minutes later, but didn't go straight back to Guinevere when he saw she was in the middle of a conversation with Headmaster Charleston.

He waited until they parted before going over to her. She didn't look happy. "What's up?" he asked, handing her a warm up.

She blew on her hot chocolate and took a sip before she answered, "Headmaster Charleston made me feel like my mother's daughter."

"Why?"

"You know how he's never been impressed with my career aspirations?"

"Yeah, sports news straddles the line between news and entertainment. It's not dignified for a prep school girl."

She shook her head. "That wasn't it this time. He asked if he can expect to see me on the sidelines of a Patriots game next year, or maybe at the desk next to Robin Roberts."

His brow raised at the second suggestion. "ESPN, that would be awesome."

"I know. But he said it in this shitty way that pissed me off," she said. "I don't even want to go into broadcast, but so what if I did? There isn't anything wrong with that, and his comment would have made me feel bad about it."

"He's a pretentious guy. Some broadcast journalists reach celebrity status. He probably finds that tacky," he said.

"Yes, true, but I heard something else in the subtext," she said.

Ah, the great unsaid. She was always listening for that, latent and silent though it was.

"Journalism is male dominated, but he didn't mention any men, or writers," she said. "He specifically made reference the few women who are seen and heard-like they shouldn't be."

"You do sound like our mother's daughter."

"Some of those girls on the sidelines are smart and want to move up to anchor jobs," she said. "And Robin Roberts? She's on freaking _SportCenter_ , and he mentioned her like it doesn't matter, like she has nothing of value to bring to the table."

Tristan didn't have anything comforting to say, and instead let his sister stew for a few minutes. He finally asked, "Did you put him on the spot and ask if he thinks Robin Roberts should have a muzzle instead of a microphone?"

Guinevere's mouth twitched into a smirk. "That's not bad, did you come up with it yourself?"

He grinned and shook his head. "No, I think I heard Mom say something like that."

She nodded once in understanding, and then shook her head in answer to his question. "As much as I like that, it's too closed ended. I told him that I'm going to sit in the press box and write for a deadline, just like the men," she said. "Then I said I'm always looking for role models and since he didn't approve of mine, asked him to suggest some female members of the press that he does admire, if any."

Tristan nudged her with his elbow. "Go on with your bad self."

A smile crept across Guinevere's face at Roberts's catchphrase. She sighed heavily and shook her head. "He sputtered something about how he didn't mean for it to sound like he didn't find women admirable. But he couldn't name any. And that was telling, since he was so quick to name ones he's not impressed with."

They were quiet for a few minutes, sipping their hot chocolate as more people passed back and forth. Tristan said, "Sorry for suggesting we come tonight. I thought it would be fun."

She considered him and shrugged. "I made someone important squirm, which is a success to me. So I had some fun." She added, "And who knows, maybe after he has time to think about it, he'll have an answer for the next girl who asks."

With a glance back over to the field, Tristan said, "The marching band is lining up, you better get to the press box so you can watch." That always cheered her up.

After the game, Guinevere glanced at the time in her car. "We could make it to a late movie. Ryan and Scott went to see _Fight Club_ last week," she said, speaking of her roommates. "So I need to see it before they spoil it anymore for me. They already keep saying they can't talk about Fight Club." She gave Tristan a sidelong look. "Unless you had plans to make it a date night with a girl."

He fidgeted. "No."

She checked for oncoming traffic and turned out of the lot. "Really? It looked like you were flirting with those girls tonight."

"We were just talking."

"Well, then you talk with flirty body language. I know it when I see it." She asked, "What happened with the little Catholic girl? Love her and leave her already?"

Tristan didn't say anything for a moment. "No, nothing happened. She isn't allowed to date until she's 16."

"Oh. What if she could?"

He thought about it, how it'd been disappointing to hear. He also considered the girls he'd talked to tonight and how he wasn't really dying to spend more time with them. Then he slowly said, "I would ask her out, probably." He asked, "Are you going to tell me I just want what I can't have?"

"No," she said simply, checking her blind spot and shifting gears to merge onto the interstate, heading toward the movie theater.

"No?"

She lifted a shoulder. "I want the fruit because I want it. If it's forbidden, it _is_ more tempting. But the original desire was already there. I don't think we can help it. It runs in our blood, right alongside the printer's ink and hypocrisy."

Tristan frowned and thought it over. "So, I should try to date Francie? What about her parents?"

Guinevere shrugged. "You can always _try_ to get what you want. The worse they can say is no."

XXX

Caroline was sitting at the kitchen table Sunday morning, nursing a cup of coffee while she read the paper. She read the local news first, scouring for the information, but also judging the reporter's work. She did it subconsciously, like she always had. She couldn't help it. When she'd tossed the Courant aside, she picked up the _Wall Street Journal_ next, her eyes fondly landing on the masthead. Getting a job there was her first achievement in life worth noting. And as soon as it had officially _not_ made an impression, she quit. It was stupid, really, of her to have hung onto a smidgen of hope for that long. As though anything she did could change what had been decided before she was born. She couldn't stop trying though.

Seven years later, there wasn't a day she didn't miss working at a paper. But she had to get out of the newsroom. She couldn't stay there, knowing she'd never be more than a reporter, or editor at the most. There were doubters among her family members, who thought she'd go running away from finance, but what would she do then? She felt like she'd already exhausted the options in her life. She'd stick it out where she was a little longer. She liked working with Alexander every day.

After Caroline had read a few sections of the Journal, she heard someone coming down the stairs. Tristan walked in, wearing grey slacks and a button down shirt. He was working on his neck tie. When he asked if it was straight, she gestured for him to come over so she adjust it for him.

"Do you want to come to church with me and Grandpa?" he asked.

She gave him a look of amusement at his etiquette as she picked up her coffee cup. Cradling it in her hands with her elbows resting on the table, she shook her head and smiled a little. Or maybe it was a smirk. "No, but thank you for asking." That Jesus fellow seemed like a nice Jewish boy, but Caroline felt no need to worship him on a weekly basis. "Maybe your dad will go, did you ask him?"

"Yeah, he said to save him a seat at Christmas."

Janlen came to retrieve Tristan, and Caroline turned down a second offer to go along. She promised them breakfast when they returned and saw them off. She went to the fridge to take inventory of supplies to decide what she'd make, pausing when she was interrupted.

"Hey Mom!" Guinevere yelled from upstairs. "Can you come here?"

Music was playing from her stereo when Caroline entered, and there were newspaper clippings scattered over the floor. Her daughter was sitting on her legs in the middle of the mess and looked up. Caroline asked, "Have you picked any?"

Guinevere pointed to two lonely clippings on her desk. She pointed to a bigger group and said, "Those are maybes, and those," she said, pointing to the largest group, "are nos."

Caroline picked up the two deemed worthy and skimmed them, putting one back in the 'no' group.

"Hey, what was wrong with that one?" Guinevere asked with a scowl as she picked it back up.

"It isn't one of your best articles. Why did you think it was?"

"The lede, didn't you read it?"

"Yes."

"What do editors love?"

"Great ledes."

Guinevere's eyes wide and expectant, she said, "Tell me that isn't a great lede."

"Your lede is good. But the rest of the article isn't up to par. Your future job depends on this. It needs to all be good, not just the first sentence." Caroline pulled out the desk chair to sit and picked up some newspaper clippings. She read through a few and added two to the no group and one to the maybes.

Guinevere asked, "Can I show you something I wrote on my blog? I'm thinking of using a clip from there."

Caroline shook her head, shutting it down. "No. That isn't affiliated with an established newspaper. It's your personal thoughts, like a diary. You could start any rumor there without any investigation."

"I don't start rumors," Guinevere protested. "I write on there like I write any other article."

"But an editor hasn't reviewed it. And you can't monetize your blog," Caroline said. "That's free content you're giving away. As your mother, it's my job to warn you that no one will buy the cow if they can get the milk for free."

Guinevere crossed her arms and frowned. "Mitchum gives it away for free."

"He always has, and it's never been wise."

Guinevere said, "I think including my blog demonstrates that I can keep up with new technology. Unlike, say, Baby Boomers, who are happy doing things the way they've always been done."

Caroline relented, "You can mention it when you're networking, but don't use it for your clips."

"Fine."

"Be sure to put in a couple that aren't sports. You need to show that you're flexible enough to cover anything they'll give you."

"You didn't have to cover anything before you wrote for the finance section."

Dryly, Caroline said, "Yes, I just sailed right in. Never mind those four years I worked in the field and that MBA I got." No one could tell her she couldn't talk the talk. She made sure of that.

Her daughter just gave her a look and went back to reading.

Alex stuck his head in, frowning. He pointed at the stereo. "This is why you're never going to write for _Rolling Stone_." He sighed and shook his head. "I had such dreams for you."

Caroline pursed her lips thoughtfully. Their daughter wasn't going to write about music, but her interest in sports was likely due to Alexander. Caroline had been adamant that Guinevere not be treated differently just because she's a girl. Traditional gender roles weren't thrusted on her, deciding what she could and couldn't do. So she liked sports and played with the boys. She might be frustrated that they hardly noticed she was a girl, but life wasn't a romance novel, there was plenty of time for a boyfriend later.

Guinevere eyed her father warily. "I'm not going to write for _Rolling Stone_ because I'm not applying there."

He shook his head again. "No, that's the secondary reason. This is the first. What is this noise?"

Defiantly, she said, "The Backstreet Boys. They're a boy band, very popular right now. You know, like the New Kids on the Block."

" _Right now_ is the key phrase. Do they play instruments?"

"Nope, they harmonize and dance. And they do it well."

"So we're using the term 'band' loosely. Are those new kids still putting out music these days?"

"No. Donnie Wahlberg acts, he was just in the _Sixth Sense_." Then she argued, "Just because we might not be listening to them ten years from now doesn't mean I can't enjoy them today." She pointed at the radio. "I'm not ashamed. Listen to those harmonies, it's heavenly. These boys can sing to me any day."

Alexander let out a long sigh.

Caroline stood and changed the subject, "I need to start breakfast before JD and Tristan get back. Why don't you two go watch the pre-game?"

"What about my clips?" Guinevere asked, looking around.

"Were you really going to finish today?"

Guinevere blinked. "Nope. Let's go."


	10. 1-6

The Geller house was quiet as Paris and Tristan worked on their biology. They were paired up for an assignment this week, and she'd suggested they work at her house. They were responsible for teaching one cycle of mitosis to the rest of the class, in their case, metaphase.

From her seat next to him, Paris ordered, "Tell me all the parts of a cell."

His hand resting on the table, he turned it up slightly in protest. "We already had a test over that."

"What did you get on it?"

"B+."

"B+ isn't good enough. We aren't going to get a B+. I need to make sure you know what's in a cell if I expect you to help me explain how it splits."

Tristan understood why people didn't like Paris, she was blunt and honest at all times. But she could be nice, too. She was always nice to him. He liked having her for a partner, mostly. He knew they were going to get an A, because Paris settled for nothing less. She took charge and all he had to do was whatever she told him to do. As long as he didn't screw it up, she'd be happy with him. It was like when his sister had an idea. She did all the visualizing and planning. He just had to follow her directions to carry things out.

He sighed. "Fine." He took a sheet she handed over, it was a picture of an unlabeled cell. He started pointing at the parts. "Ribosomes, mitochondria." And so on.

When he finished, she said, "Now tell me what prophase is."

"We only have to do metaphase," he protested. "Someone else will teach us about prophase."

"Is that how you're going through life, only doing what you have to do for class? This will probably pop up on the SATs. And I'm sure I'll need to know it for AP Biology next year."

He sighed again. Paris reminded him of his mom. They both had a deeply ingrained ruthless desire to get ahead. Neither could be confused as easy going.

She went on, "Madeline and her partner got prophase. She is smart, but I'm not depending on her to teach me about the first stage of the cell cycle. We're going to understand everything, not just our part."

Paris Geller and Caroline Dugray, kindred spirits.

One thing was for sure, he was going to ace the test on mitosis.

They worked for two hours on the cell cycle, Paris allowing him one bathroom break. He was grateful when her nanny came in with a plate of oatmeal raisin cookies. Recognizing him as one of Paris's elementary school classmates, Nanny greeted Tristan warmly.

"Thank you," he said as he took a cookie from the plate. He swallowed a bite and commented, "I miss my nanny."

Paris glanced up from her work. "You have your grandpa though."

"Yeah," he agreed. "He's cool to have around. But he doesn't bake cookies."

"Nanny could make you some, if you wanted," Paris offered, quite kindly and almost shyly.

Tristan was about to answer when there was a sudden noise coming from another room in the big house. It was Mrs. Geller, and she didn't sound happy. A second voice responded back-Mr. Geller. Their tit-for-tat was not friendly. They weren't just annoyed with each other, they were down right angry with each other.

Paris's head lifted when she heard them. She froze, her eyes widened and pink rose to her cheeks.

Mr. and Mrs. Geller moved from one room to another, never stopping their argument. They didn't even seem to notice Paris and Tristan sitting in the dining room when they paused at the entrance for a moment.

With determination, Paris looked back down at her work and pretended she was far too deep in concentration to hear her parents. Tristan kept his mouth sealed shut, glancing from the Gellers to their daughter and then down to his own work, as though there was nothing disturbing going on. He hadn't been here in awhile. He didn't know when this had started between her parents. They were often gone, leaving Paris alone in the house with her nanny. For all he knew, this was always there, under the surface, and they were just now letting it explode all over.

Casually, Tristan asked, "Do you want to go to my house? My grandpa could come get us."

Without making eye contact, Paris quietly asked, "Your parents won't mind?"

He shook his head. "They aren't there. They're staying in New York this week for work. They might be back over the weekend. I'm not sure." Privately, he hoped they didn't argue like that behind closed doors.

She started to quickly gather her things together before reaching for her backpack. "I'll ask Nanny to wrap up the cookies."

"Paris Geller," Janlen greeted with a smile when the climbed into his station wagon. "It's been too long."

She grinned modestly. "It's nice to see you too, sir."

They set up in the den to resume their work, Paris asking that Tristan recite the parts of the cell again, as though he might have forgotten everything on the short trip over. Pleased with the ease at which he listed everything this time, but not finished pushing him, she had him explain each phase in the cell cycle. Only then did she give the okay for them to resume planning their lesson on metaphase.

Apparently content with their progress for the day, Paris suggested they switch gears to work on their math homework. Tristan refrained from calling her out on it, but he suspected she was stalling so she wouldn't have to return to her own house. He wasn't surprised when she accepted Janlen's invitation to stay for supper.

As expected, she finished the geometry assignment first. She checked all her answers and not so subtly leaned over to check his, as well. She made him redo two problems. It was like they were in the second grade again.

"I got the same answer for this one," he said with a frown, pointing to the bottom of his work where he circled a number.

"It wasn't wrong. I just wanted to make sure you could arrive at the correct answer twice," she said simply. "And you did. Of course you did, you're smart."

He stared at her, then shook his head and ran his fingers through his hair. "Not as smart as you."

"That's not true. If you tried just a little harder, I'm sure you'd be giving me a run for my money."

If only he tried harder. He already had a little voice inside his head telling him he wasn't doing a good enough job. He didn't really need Paris Geller vocalizing it.

She spied the stack of newspapers in the corner of the room and asked, "Does your sister know where she's working after graduation?"

"No. But she'll take anything, anywhere."

"I hope she's gotten over sports and turned to something more important."

He shook his head. "Nope. Never. Editor for _Sports Illustrated_ or producing for ESPN is the goal."

Paris tsked and took out her history notes. She may not have any intention of leaving tonight. He finished his geometry, wondering if she checked the rest of his answers, and sighed as he pulled out his own history book. He opened to the chapter they were on, but didn't read. "Hey Paris?"

"Yeah?" she said, looking up after she finished highlighting a sentence.

"What would you do if you wanted to go out with someone, but their parents won't let them?

She blinked, then blushed. Did Paris like someone? He couldn't think of a single guy in their class that could come close to whatever ridiculously high standards she surely had. Interesting. Suspicious, she asked, "Why?"

"Just, hypothetically, okay?"

"My parents shouldn't allow me to date. I'll have time for boys after Harvard. I shouldn't focus on anything else until then."

He lifted his eyes to the ceiling. He deeply inhaled and let it out.

Seeing his frustration, she relented, "If it wasn't my parents, then it wouldn't be up to me."

"It wouldn't?"

She shook her head. "No. It would be the responsibility of the other person."

He frowned. "There's nothing I can do?"

She shrugged. "It wouldn't hurt to make a good impression." He was barely listening when she added, "Not that you have anything to worry about there."

It was up to Francie to convince her parents to change their minds. He should probably run it by her. He'd call her tonight, just as soon as Paris left. He glanced over at the blond girl, hoping that she would indeed leave at some point.

XXX

 _Caroline carefully balanced a tray of cups on her right arm and held a coffee pot in the other hand as she went from one cubicle to the next. She poured two cups at a time, leaving one for the worker on his desk and put the other on the tray to carry to the next person. She gave the cup a withering look, daring it to fall off the tray. Unfortunately, the person at the next cubicle blocked her path before she had time to react. Alexander's coffee cup slid off the tray when she ran into him, spilling down his front._

 _Her eyes widened and she gasped. Alexander inhaled sharply at the hot liquid on his clean shirt, no doubt hot on his skin. She could see his jaw clench tightly, willing himself not to scold her. But she saw the anger in his brown eyes._

" _Caroline," he said through gritted teeth._

" _I'm sorry," she said quickly. Then another thought sickened her. "Your meeting is in five minutes."_

" _I know, I have to present a project."_

" _It's all right," said an older man standing near Alex's desk. Caroline just now noticed him. Though his dark hair was greying, she could see the resemblance between the two. He took off his blazer and started unbuttoning his dress shirt. "It's a bit big, but no one will notice when you put on your jacket," he said, handing it over._

 _Alex took off his own shirt and accepted the clean one._

" _There, good as new," the older man said genially, as though Caroline hadn't just ruined Alex's day. Sticking his hand out, he politely said, "I'm sorry, I haven't even introduced myself. Janlen Dugray. I'm afraid this was my fault. I distracted Alex with my chatter."_

 _Alex didn't say anything as he tucked his shirt in and put his belt and jacket back on, pretending that he wasn't upset._

 _She accepted the handshake. "Caroline Huntzberger." Looking at Janlen in his white t-shirt, she pointed away. "I'll just go buy you a new shirt."_

" _It's no problem," Janlen said earnestly._

" _No, really, I'll get you one." She timidly eyed Alex on her way out, guilty, though relieved to escape. She would have felt better if he had yelled at her like he clearly wanted to._

 _Caroline returned to the office a half hour later to find Janlen lounging in his son's chair, reading the paper. He smiled kindly when he saw her. "Thank you," he said, taking the new shirt she offered. "But you didn't have to."_

" _I did. This one is for Alexander," she said, placing the second shirt on the desk._

" _I hope there wasn't anything more important you had to do."_

" _No," she said, a bit glum. "Passing out packets at the morning meeting isn't all that important. I was hoping to learn how to run a business."'_

 _His brow quirked in curiosity. "Ambitious for a summer intern," Janlen said, now dressed._

 _She shrugged. "I have to learn sometime. I want to be ready."_

XXX

 _Alex had ten minutes left in his work day when Caroline made another appearance. His dad had returned after a two hour lunch with her. She looked uncharacteristically timid as she approached him quietly. "I wanted to apologize again, for ruining your shirt. I know you don't believe me, but it really was an accident."_

" _It's fine," he said in monotone._

" _Did your presentation go well?"_

" _It went fine."_

" _That's good," she said. She was still hovering in his cubicle, apparently not finished._

 _He glowered up at her. He was gloomy today, and he didn't even know why. It wasn't just the spilled coffee. "Did you need something else?"_

" _No. I'm sorry I stole lunch with your dad out from under you. I didn't know we'd take such a long lunch."_

" _It's fine," he said again. "We would have just talked about our last squash game."_

" _Oh, okay," she said with a frown. "He offered me an internship at his investment house next summer, since this one isn't doing me any good."_

" _Great."_

" _This way I can learn how a business is run, and I'll learn about finance." She sounded like she was containing some excitement._

 _He asked, "Why do you want to learn about investment banking? You're a newspaper woman."_

" _Yes," she said with a small smile. "But this could be what I write about-finance. It's perfect. I'll write about business, which will prove that I can write and also that I know about business. I don't know why I never thought of it before."_

 _The corner of his mouth stretched up, just slightly, though earnestly. "Good."_

 _Caroline's smile stretched and her eyes sparkled, very prettily. He stared at her an extra second, this being the happiest he'd seen her all summer. "I don't know anything about finance, but that's alright, I can learn. Your dad said he'd teach me."_

" _Did he?" Alex asked flatly, raising a brow. "How nice of him." Janlen never sat down to advise any of his own kids._

 _When she seemed to hesitate rather than leave, he sighed heavily. "Caroline, what?"_

 _She blinked rapidly, startled. "Nothing, it's just, I'm really glad I got to talk to your dad. He seems like a very good man."_

" _The next Andrew Carnegie. Everybody likes him."_

" _He talked about your brothers-Ben and Joe and Emery."_

 _Alex rubbed the bridge of his nose. There it was. He knew there was some reason his father's visit annoyed him. "Mm-hmm. Did you lecture him about shortening all our names?"_

" _I didn't_ lecture _him, really. But he explained that he needed a way for you all to know when you're in trouble," she said, at least mildly amused by the explanation. "Anyway, didn't you say you have four brothers?"_

 _He froze and his heart thumped harder. Why did she remember that? She didn't even like him. "Yes. Five in all."_

" _That's too many," she muttered. "Why do you think he only mentioned four of you?"_

 _Alex clenched his jaw for a moment. He looked down to unnecessarily straighten the papers in front of him. "It would have made you uncomfortable to bring up Ike."_

" _Ike. As in Eisenhower?"_

 _He nodded._

" _So he's younger than you."_

 _He shook his head. "A year and a half older. He's named after the commander, not president." Then, stalling, he said, "Joe was born before Dad went to World War II, then Ike and me when he came back. He got called back to Korea, so the youngest two were after that."_

" _Ah. So, what would have made me uncomfortable?" she asked gently._

 _He didn't say anything at first, but she didn't move. She just kept looking at him. Is this what she did when she wanted information from people? Stare her prey down until they talked? She kept her attention on him as though the only thing that mattered right now was his answer and she wasn't going to leave him alone until she heard it. He was unnerved, not just by her waiting on him to speak, but because this is what he thought he wanted. He wasn't supposed to talk about this, which was absurd. It was the biggest, worst thing to happen in his life, and he had to pretend he was fine. He'd grown to hate the repression. It was stifling, while his insides were twisted uncomfortably._

 _Now Caroline was standing in front of him, not caring about unspoken rules and inviting him to talk about it, and he couldn't form words. "Alex?" she prompted._

 _He was going to have to say it outloud. He cleared his throat. "Ike's number came up his junior year of college. So he went-to Vietnam," Alex said. "He wouldn't have deferred. He was called on to do something, so he did it. And he . . . "_

 _She filled in the blank, "Didn't make it back?"_

 _He swallowed a lump that had formed in his throat. "Euphemisms are middle-class, Caroline. He's dead. It was a napalm bomb." He looked away, not wanting her to see his pain._

" _When?"_

" _December-this past December."_

" _I'm sorry, that's awful."_

" _We don't talk about it, in my family," he said. He glanced up at her. "My dad-he's not a bad guy. It's just . . . how he was raised."_

" _You too," she said quietly, knowingly. "Were you and Eisen-Ike-were you two close?"_

 _Alex took a deep breath. He didn't want his voice to waver. "Yeah. He left all his stuff to me," he said. "I've been driving his car, trying to . . ." He shook his head. "I don't know. I just keep driving it around."_

" _I'm sorry about the things I've said—to you, and about the war. I didn't know you took it personally."_

" _Everybody's entitled to their opinion."_

" _Yes, but I don't have to bring mine up so often."_

 _The corner of his lips tugged slightly, without humor. "I figure you can't help it."_

" _Well it's never too late to give self-restraint a try." It seemed like the natural place for her to leave, to let him alone with his painful thoughts. But she lingered still. She opened her mouth and seemed to be determined to speak, but chickened out._

 _Alex didn't know what her problem was. "What?"_

" _Uh, nothing." She didn't move. Finally, she asked, "Do you want to know why I got kicked out of all those prep schools?"_

" _You said, you stopped showing up to everything."_

" _That was just Ethel Walker, there were two others."_

 _Of course, he still had to uncover what she did at those schools. He focused back on whatever it was she felt like telling him. "You said why. You didn't see the point in any of it."_

 _She exhaled impatiently. "Yes, but_ why _, don't you ever wonder_ why _people do things? You have to dig deeper to understand," she said insistently._

 _Alex's brows creased. "No,_ you _have to dig deeper. I have to discreetly leave it alone." She cast her eyes upward and when she turned to go, he quickly rolled out his chair to grab her wrist. "But it can drive a person crazy. Why did you get kicked out of school, Caroline? I'm dying to know."_

 _She stopped and slowly slid her wrist out of his firm grasp. "My mom died."_

" _Oh," he said, sitting up in his chair. "I'm sorry."_

" _When I was six-that's when she died." When he frowned at the time discrepancy, she went on, "The official story is that it was an accident-at the Cape. That's closest to the real answer without getting too honest." Caroline paused here. "But some people said she was sick-our nanny before she got fired, and my mom's sister." She looked back at Alex. "We visit her farm in Iowa sometimes in the summer. She's so mad at my dad, she blames him for what happened."_

 _Alex felt uneasy, and although it was unnatural for him to pry, he asked, "What happened?"_

" _That's what Mitchum and I decided to find out. We were in high school, and wanted to know why there were conflicting stories. We went to her doctor's office to look at her medical records."_

" _They let you see them?"_

 _Caroline glanced at him and shook her head. "No. I distracted the receptionist and Mitchum found the file. She always thought she was sick. She was always going to the doctor. But he never found anything wrong with her. She went there all the time to check for ailments she thought she had—a tumor, cancer, pneumonia, heart palpitations, German measles, cancer again. She_ always _believed she was sick. Doctors ran tests, but they never found anything wrong with her." She sighed. "So we went to the police department at the Cape to read the incident report." Caroline stared at nothing in particular. "She drowned. She left a note for my dad-he was asleep when she snuck out."_

" _She . . ." Alex started, but didn't want to finish._

 _Caroline looked down at her hands. "She drowned herself. I don't know what the note said, I haven't found it yet, but she went down to the water. She couldn't take it, or didn't want-she just . . . left us," Caroline said, her sentences broken. Her eyes were filling with tears. She looked like a sad, broken little girl._

Don't you ever wonder why people do things? You have to dig deeper to understand. _She hadn't found the note yet, as in, she was_ looking _for it? What a terrible thing to be looking for, a terrible desire to live with, to want to know why things happen. Has she been looking for that note for the last three or four years? What did she think it was going to say? Did she go through the whole cycle again when she found the truth? The denial, the anger. The depression._

 _She kept getting kicked out of school. There was his answer. Of course she went through it all over._

 _Alex had spent the last few months wondering when this feeling would go away. Like the world just kept moving without knowing one of its parts was missing. Now he knew, he saw the answer in Caroline's eyes. It wasn't going to feel better. There would always be something missing. He was always going to notice._

 _He swallowed hard and stood up quietly to close the distance between them to wrap his arms around her. He was barely aware of what he was doing. He wasn't sure if he was compelled to embrace her because she looked like she needed it, or because he was the one reaching out and finally had someone to cling to._

 _She silently turned her face to his chest and hugged him back. She and Alex were both quiet for a couple minutes. "Caroline?" he asked. "Are you trying to steal my dead relative thunder?"_

 _She stifled laughter that came out as a sob. She swallowed hard and in a small voice, said, "No, I'm sorry."_

 _He handed her a handkerchief and busied himself with getting his belongings together to give her some privacy to blow her nose and wipe her eyes._

 _Finally, someone who could express what he felt. It broke his heart, and yet he was comforted to know he wasn't alone in his misery. "Are you ready to call it a day?" he asked. "We can share an elevator."_

 _She nodded. "Okay."_


	11. 1-7

**A/N:** I always have the best of intentions to get the updated in a more timely manner. Then I invite a distraction in and six months slip by. I do have the next chapter written, so I hope to get that up in the next week or two. It's been a while, so to recap, I find Rory insipid, and I'd rather write anyone else. Absolutely. Anyone. To be honest though, I really like writing the family in this fic. I do hope to get going on this, because there's a whole sequel I still want to get to.

XXX

 _Caroline stood in the middle of her father's study, her arms crossed, while she looked around the room in contemplation. She'd already searched the desk. That was the obvious first place to look, and she didn't really expect to find what she was looking for._ Too _obvious. The bookcase had already revealed itself as a hiding place. She went over to where she left off last and began taking books out one by one, holding each by the spine and flipping the pages downward so any loose paper would fall out._

 _Her heart sped up when she got to the fifth book and a thick envelope fell to the floor. This could be it, she thought as she picked it up. Her pulse slowed back down with disappointment when she read the German return address. She put the book back with the spine down and sticking out so she'd remember her place before going over to sit at her father's desk._

 _She pulled out the contents of the envelope. It was several sheets of tri-folded paper, now delicate from time. It was three separate letters addressed to her grandfather, and checking the first date against the postmark on the envelope, she deducted that her grandfather had received them separately and he stored them all in the first envelope._

 _She brushed her long reddish blond hair over her shoulder as she tried to read the cursive German. She looked up sharply when the slightly ajar door opened. She was met with relief when it was just Mitchum joining her._

" _How's your German?" she asked as he approached the desk._

" _Nicht sehr gut. Why?"_

 _She held out one of the letters to him, careful with the frail paper. It was dated 1949. "Letters to Grandpa, from a cousin maybe? The last name is familiar, possibly a relative who never left the motherland. The tone seems angry."_

" _That's because it's in German," Mitchum said, squinting at the cursive written foreign language. He shook his head. "I can't read most of it."_

" _Take German next semester," she ordered him._

 _He frowned at her. "Why?"_

" _So we can figure out what these say. Did you see where it mentions Auschwitz? And then some names are listed. Who do you think they are?"_

 _He shook his head and lifted his shoulders. "I don't know. Relatives, for all I know." He turned the page over before handing it back. Grimly, he said, "I can guess why a German-Jew would be upset with his American newspaper publisher cousin."_

 _The Herald-Tribune's Holocaust coverage was on par with the other major newspapers'—downplayed and hidden in the back. Their grandfather had not taken a heroic stand._

" _He should have done something." It went without saying that the man had great influence._

" _He probably didn't want the paper to be too Jewish," Mitchum reasoned._

" _But this wasn't just a Jewish issue, it was a human issue," she argued._

" _You don't know if was an easy decision, how to cover things in Europe." Suspiciously, Mitchum asked, "Those letters were just lying around?"_

" _No, they were hidden in a book on the shelf," she said, pointing to the book she'd turned._

 _He was silent for a pointed second. "What were you looking for?"_

" _I wonder if there are more of these," she mused, not answering his question. He knew what she was looking for, she didn't know why he bothered asking. Mitchum didn't think she should look for their mother's last words to their father. He thought it would be better not to know. Mitchum was soft. He thought he had the authority to decide what other people could handle. That's why Kassandra was still in the dark about what really happened to their mom. It was strange that he was already developing a 'Daddy knows best' mentality._

 _Caroline didn't need him to decide anything for her. She didn't need anyone protecting her from life's ugly truths. As far as she was concerned, Mitchum was the one who couldn't handle it._

 _The letter from the cousin wasn't the only thing she came across in Elias's study. There were two receipts and letters of thanks, dated two years apart, from his sister. He'd given her money for her abortions, when she was at Barnard. Elias kept the paper trail. It was one of the reasons Caroline knew her mother's suicide letter existed somewhere. Her father kept morbid momentos._

 _She refolded the letters and stuffed them back into the envelope before replacing them in the book. Glancing at the time, Caroline said, "I have to go. Big important plans to goof off with the Brigade today?"_

 _He blinked. "Brigade?"_

 _She crossed her arms, an impatient expression on her face. "Don't bother with the act. There's a stack of letters in Dad's bottom drawer from his college friends. They all use the closing line 'In omnia paratus.'"_

 _He remained so completely nonchalant, it was obviously practiced. "I've never heard that phrase before._

" _Really? Not even when you end phone calls with your friends the same way?"_

 _He stared. "You must have overheard someone else. I don't even know what 'in onomatopoeia' means. Do you?" Mitchum asked, quite curious._

 _She dryly answered, "I can only assume it means our great-grandfather and his friends knew the Bonesmen weren't going to tap them, so they circumvented their imminent rejection by forming their own little group before senior year." She paused a second, then added, "As a coping mechanism, I guess. No one likes rejection."_

" _That's an interesting theory."_

" _It's pretty obvious, when you think about it," Caroline said. "Minimal research will tell you Yale secret societies all have 14 senior members—no underclassmen, and no Jews. Clearly then, they made it up."_

" _I wouldn't know about any of that, but it all sounds fascinating."_

" _I do have one question, do you feel like Mary Poppins?" she asked as they walked out of their father's study. "The umbrellas would make me feel like Mary Poppins."_

 _Mitchum opened his mouth, then closed it._

 _She smirked. "Okay, I'll let you have this, for now. But when we're running the company and your 'friends' start calling in special favors, I will put a stop to it." She gave her brother a lingering look before departing. She didn't know why he was so concerned with her wanting to know what their mother's final words were. He was the one who flirted with death to get a thrill. Was that really any better?_

XXX

"Well, did you ask them?" Tristan asked Francie the next morning in the hall before class.

Francie put her books she'd used for last night's homework in her locker, trading them for the ones she'd need for her first three classes. She had been so excited the night before when he called. He wanted to date her. Tristan Dugray, pretty and popular, wanted her to be his girlfriend. Her insides melted when he asked her to persuade her parents to change their rule. Then butterflies took over when she did so.

"I ran it by them," she answered, closing the flap on her bag. "They said I could date you."

"They did?" he asked, brightening.

A few feet down, Paris Geller slammed her locker door harshly and turned away with a huff to her next class.

Francie focused back on Tristan as though there hadn't been an outburst. "Yeah, just as soon as I turn 16."

"Oh." His shoulders dropped.

She had been equally disappointed when her parents told her that last night. It had been a cruel fake out.

Tristan fell into step next to her as they headed down the hall. "Maybe it's not so bad. When _is_ your birthday?" he asked.

"December."

Naively, he turned optimistic. "That's not far. It's almost November."

Francie gave him a sidelong glance. "But I'll only be 15 this year."

"Oh." It was a heavy 'oh,' realization setting in just how long it'd be.

A panicky feeling seized her. Her parents didn't understand. They didn't appreciate the situation she was in. She couldn't make Tristan Dugray wait around until she turned 16. It was over a year away. He could date any girl he wanted—she saw the way they looked at him when he walked by. She had to get her parents to change their minds, before her chance slipped away.

"I'll talk to them again," she said quickly, not having any idea what she was going to say. "I'll just reason with them," she said. "Hey, what are you doing tonight?"

"Nothing, why?"

"Do you want to see a movie? I think I want to see _Fight Club_."

"I saw it with my sister," he said, to her disappointment. "But I need to see it again, the end was weird. Are you going to be able to go out though?"

"I'm allowed to see movies," Francie said. "I'll just meet you there." And she would come up with some kind of plan to persuade her parents.

Until then, she had other things to worry about. She had volleyball tryouts coming up that she needed to get in shape for, two babysitting gigs booked, and a church youth group meeting over the weekend. That was on top of all the homework these teachers kept piling on. They were relentless.

They went their separate ways before the bell rang, Francie making it to her class just in time. Unfortunately, the only open seat was at the front, next to Paris. She slid into the desk and quietly asked, "Is everything okay, Paris? You seemed upset back there." She said it overly nice, pretending to care, but really rubbing her good fortune in the other girl's face.

"Shut up, don't talk to me," Paris said, avoiding eye contact and focusing on the board at the front of the room with more concentration than normal.

"Well, if you ever want to talk about it, don't hesitate," Francie cood.

"I said don't talk to me," the other girl said through gritted teeth.

Paris went on to answer all of the teacher's questions even more aggressively than normal, and with a heavier scowl than normal, if that was possible.

XXX

 _There was traffic in the city, so Caroline climbed out of the chauffeured car to walk the final two blocks to the office building. She was a block away when a now familiar Mustang up ahead turned down the street to find a parking spot. Caroline stopped. It was Alexander Dugray. She'd hugged him yesterday. She hadn't even known what she was doing. He was suddenly in front of her and she reached for him. It must have made him so uncomfortable._

 _Her legs had not carried her any further before Alex made it to the front of the building, stopping short at the sight of her. He looked ever so slightly bashful. She was surprised that she didn't find the mere sight of him annoying now._

" _Oh, hi," he said._

" _Hello." She stared back._

 _Breaking the tension, he pulled the door open and lifted his arm to gesture for her to go in first._

" _Thank you," she mumbled. When the elevator doors closed, she asked, "So that was your brother's car?"_

 _Alex nodded. "Yeah."_

 _She remembered what he said about driving it around, not know what he was trying to do. She knew. She nervously started talking, "My mom was collecting globes—little glass orbs. My dad gave her one every year, so there were seven. I stole them." She could still remember how dark and somber the house had been after the funeral. She was sure none of its inhabitants would ever be happy again. She explained, "The movers came to take all her things away right after she died." She had snuck upstairs and peeked through the door, wanting to scream at them to stop taking her mother's things. "And I—I needed something of hers, to remember her. So when they were on lunch break, I went in their room and stole the globes."_

 _No one knew she took them, not even Mitchum. She kept them safe and hidden in one of her drawers. She added, "I didn't know I should have taken the jewelry."_

" _I imagine distraught six year olds usually don't," Alex said. They were quiet for a moment. Then he asked, "Do they help?"_

 _She considered him with a sidelong look. She knew what he meant, did her mother's possessions make her feel any better, as though things could fill the void a human left. Would driving his brother's car make the hurt go away? She blinked quickly a few times and swallowed hard. With her jaw clenched tight, she gave a small shake of her head no._

 _He nodded once. "I didn't think so."_

 _He followed her to the break room when they got to their floor. When she reached for the coffee to get it brewing for the morning, Alex took the canister from her. "May I?"_

 _She handed it over and instead turned to the cabinet where the cups were stored. He measured the grounds and apparently knew the correct ratio of water to add. Meanwhile, she took cups out of the cabinet and sat them on a tray._

 _Alex eyed her and observed, "You're left handed. Why do you write with your right hand?"_

 _She looked over at him. "My teachers made me, and my stepmom. They tied up my left hand so I wouldn't write with it. But they couldn't stop me from using it for everything else. My field hockey coach at Miss Porter's didn't mind."_

 _That seemed to remind him of something. He asked, "What happened at Dana Hall?"_

" _What do you mean?"_

" _How did you get kicked out?" he asked. "I'm dying of curiosity. Surely a newspaper woman can understand that." He asked, "Did you stop going to classes there too?"_

" _No. There's a much easier way to get in trouble. I snuck a boy into my room and made sure he was there during room check."_

" _Oh_ really _?" Alex asked._

" _I got in trouble when I hid him in the the closet, but I had to be caught in my bed with him to get expelled." She added, "My dad was the only one to notice we were fully clothed, but the headmaster didn't care." The boy didn't get so much as a slap on the wrist at his school._

" _What about Westover?" he asked as they waited for the coffee to brew._

 _Caroline sighed deeply. "Oh, you don't want to know about that."_

" _Oh, but I do."_

 _She explained. Everyone had been down by the water for a regatta, when she came across the headmaster's car. "It was just sitting there, with the keys still in it." So she got in and started it up. "I was just going to move it—maybe scare him into thinking it was stolen. He shouldn't have trusted that his car would be there when he got back." She ducked her head shyly. "But then I was driving towards the science building. I tried to stop." She looked at Alex. "I never actually learned how to drive."_

 _He stared for a moment, a smile creeping over his face. "Did you drive a car into a building?"_

 _She cringed as she bit on her lips. She nodded. "Yes." She quickly went on, "I got the pedals mixed up."_

" _Oh my God," he said in wonder. "You drove the headmaster's car into a building. I can't believe it."_

" _My dad was so mad about that one. He had to pay for the damages." She'd had a meltdown and finally threw in his face the lie he'd let her believe, that her mom hadn't been in an accident. It was met with surprise and anger. He was mad at her for finding out, mad at her for bringing it up, not interested in discussing it. Whatever his feelings, Elias and Caroline didn't find comfort or solace in each other._

" _Is that why you didn't do anything to get kicked out of Miss Porter's?"_

" _Sort of. I behaved there because my dad threatened to send me to Covenant of the Sacred Heart and make me live at home with Vivien if I got kicked out one more time." Caroline glanced at Alex. "Are you anti-Semitic?"_

" _I don't think so. Why?"_

" _I couldn't go to Catholic school, I'm Jewish."_

 _He said, "I don't think my dad could even tell."_

" _I never got to have a bat mitzvah."_

 _He nodded. Dryly, "That must have thrown him off."_

XXX

The Jarvis's sat at the table while their oldest daughter laid out homework assignments and quizzes, along with a master schedule of her extra-curricular activities, youth group, and babysitting duties.

"Now, as you can see," Francie said, "my grades so far have been good." She picked up an assignment dated a couple weeks ago and put it in front of them. "I worked on this with Tristan at his house, and as you can see, I got a B+. The teachers at Chilton are hard, so a B+ is respectable." She did the same for the quiz from the same class, also a decent grade.

She must have brought every assignment she'd done since starting school, comparing before and after making friends with the boy. She ensured that her grades would not be affected. She promised to never miss mass on Sunday mornings. She made so many promises, she may as well have been running for political office.

Francie concluded her presentation, "If I keep my grades up and keep up with volleyball and church youth group, I think this proves I'm responsible enough to have a boyfriend."

"No," Gerald said without thought.

"But, why?"

"Our house, our rules," her father said. "We don't have to explain ourselves to you."

Francie's shoulders dropped in a pout.

"Go to your room, and we'll discuss it," Janice said.

"That's all I ask," Francie said, more hopeful, leaving her things for her parents to consider in their decision.

Janice grimly raised a brow. A discussion was absolutely _not_ all their daughter was asking. When it was just the two of them, she said, "She really wants to go out with that boy."

Her husband had picked up the _Hartford Courant_ and opened it, as though they had not been bombarded with a presentation. "Too bad."

"I'm not saying I like it. We have rules for a reason," Janice said. "But they're teenagers. They're going to do whatever they want."

He put the paper down. "So we let her do whatever she wants?" he asked. "No."

"That's not what I'm saying. I don't like giving in and changing the rule, but I'm going to like it a lot less if she starts sneaking around with him," she said. "Did you see her schedule? She'll barely have any free time if she makes the volleyball team. That's without that kid's activities. Throw his in, and they won't even have very much time to be alone."

"What kind of name is Tristan, anyway?"

Janice stared at him for a moment, then shrugged. "Like Tristan and Isolt. It's romantic." Her husband just rolled his eyes. She went on, "If we change the rule, we can still set the boundaries."

"And if she doesn't respect our boundaries?"

Janice's mouth quirked up. "Catholic school. I'll get what I want." She grinned and added, "Now you have me hoping she'll slip up."

"I don't like this," he said.

"That she's growing up?" When he nodded, she said, "Me neither."

XXX

 _Caroline did a double take when she saw Alexander leaving for the day. She quickly grabbed her things and followed him to the elevator. He held the door when he saw her coming. She gave him a tight, appreciative grin and turned to face the doors._

 _She asked, "Do you feel any ancestral shame?"_

 _He frowned at her. "Why?"_

" _I'm experiencing some myself today."_

 _Alex was quiet for a moment. Then he said, "Well, there are a couple Revolutionary War soldiers on both sides of the family."_

" _Naturally."_

" _The Dugrays went to Princeton, so they were radicalized pretty early. On Mom's side though . . . Do you know how George Washington asked, 'are these the men with which I am to defend America?"_

 _She narrowed her eyes, trying to remember back to her last American History class. "Sure."_

" _The Continentals were deserting, in New York." Alex tilted his head outside, to the city. "Well my mom's great-great-great-grand something was one of those guys, who retreated. We still feel the guilt today."_

" _One guy decided he didn't want to fight in the revolution?" she asked. "That's not so bad. I'm sure the ladies in the DAR would be discreet enough to overlook that."_

" _She's never tried to get in."_

 _The elevator dinged at the lobby and they walked off. "Your family came over on the Mayflower," she reasoned. "So you still have that."_

" _It was the Little James, actually. There were other boats." He gave her a thoughtful look. "Hey, do you need a ride somewhere?"_

" _Oh, well, my driver's coming for me."_

 _He nodded once. "Sure. I'll see you tomorrow, Caroline."_

" _Bye," she said, watching him walk away._

XXX

Francie couldn't believe it. She had successfully persuaded her parents to let her date a year earlier. She was going to have Tristan for a boyfriend. She'd excitedly called him the second her mom gave her their ruling. He didn't even seem too perturbed at the prospect of regulations and stipulations.

"What kind of stipulations?"

"Well, they want to meet you first."

"Oh, okay" he said slowly. "Is it going to be like a job interview?"

"No," she said with an amused frown. "But if you have any transcripts or supporting documents that you think could help your case, don't shy away from bringing them." She said, "We're going out for Chinese before the movies tonight, can you meet us?"

Tristan dutifully arrived at the restaurant first, and shook both of her parents' hands before sitting at the table for five, because, that's right, even Francie's sister came along.

"So, Tristan," Janice started, "What do your parents do?"

After swallowing a bite of his shrimp and broccoli, he answered, "They work together, at a private equity firm. They travel a lot." Then he quickly added, "But my grandpa is always at the house. So I'm never alone." And then, as though he thought it could get him some points, he rushed on, "My parents are together. Not divorced."

"That's good." Janice glanced to her husband to see if he had anything he wanted to say. When he showed no interest, she went on, "Does all of your family live in Connecticut?"

"The Dugrays do. The Hu—my mom's family is in New York."

Janice nodded and took a break to eat. Gerald alternately went on with his meal and looking at Tristan like he was waiting for him to say something stupid. He finally thought of a question, "Where do you go to church?"

"First Episcopalian," Tristan answered. "I go with my grandpa every Sunday."

"What about your parents?"

"Those heathens? They don't go." When the joke didn't garner so much as a grin, Tristan cleared his throat and hastily sobered. "Uh, my dad goes on Christmas and Easter. But my mom is Jewish, so she doesn't like to go to church."

"Oh," Janice said, glancing down at Tristan's plate.

"I don't keep kosher," he said. "In fact, it's a family tradition to grill lobster every summer at the Vineyard."

Francie saw her dad do a slow blink, cousin to the eye roll, at her mom. The look growled 'spoiled rich kid.'

The dinner continued, with more questions about grades and extracurricular activities. Tristan was relentlessly polite through it all, alternating between calling her parents Mr. and Mrs. Jarvis, and sir and ma'am. Rather than endear himself to Francie's father, the good etiquette seemed to have the opposite effect.

Francie should have known they'd send her sister with her at the movie theater. "But we were going to see _Fight Club_ ," she protested. "It's rated R, so she can't go."

"You aren't going to see it, either, then," her dad said.

"Why can't Erica go with you guys to your movie?"

"Because," her mom said. "We might want to see something R rated." Her dad gave them some money and joined the line to pick out a movie.

Francie stood next to her sister with her arms crossed, glowering, when Tristan returned with a bucket of popcorn. She told him, "There's bad news, and worse news. They won't let me see an R rated movie and we're stuck with my sister." She jerked her head in her sister's direction.

"Oh, okay," Tristan said, a slight smirk at her situation. "Is she going to report back if we sit too close?"

"Probably."

He looked up at the menu. "We could see _Superstar_. It's Molly Shannon, so it should be funny."

They joined the line and she asked, "Your sister is older?"

"Yeah, several years older. She's hardly ever around."

"Lucky."


	12. 1-8

**The Story of Us**

Everyone was moving around the first floor of the Dugray house, just about ready to go. Caroline stopped to glanced at the resume her daughter held out for her. "I hope you only printed that one."

"Why?"

"You need to change your email address."

Guinevere looked at her heading and then to her mother. "What's wrong with GwennyB2000?"

"There's nothing right about it," Caroline said.

"I like it," Alex said, pulling on his suit jacket.

"I'm sure you do. But it's not professional. Just use your actual name instead of an obscure childhood nickname," she told Guinevere. Alexander was the only one to call their daughter Gwenny Bee, and even then, only occasionally.

Janlen walked in from the garage, followed by Tristan and his new girlfriend. Her teenage son was bringing a girl to the family holiday party. Guinevere had never even brought anyone. The family wasn't for the faint of heart, and it could be dangerous to bring a prospective suitor around. But Tristan was young still, so this girl wouldn't matter in the long run. If he was anything like his uncle, and sometimes Caroline worried he was, it would be a different girl next year, or even by the new year. Caroline glanced at the redheaded girl up and down. As she understood the situation, Francie's parents had only just allowed her to have a boyfriend after her birthday, which was a couple days ago. And since the Dugrays were leaving for their Christmas ski trip the next day, Tristan thought a night with the Huntzbergers would make a nice first outing. He was a very naive boy. Caroline would have reminded him the girl would be here when they got back, but didn't. His interest might not.

Caroline took a quick count. "We'll have to take two cars, who's riding with us?"

"We'll ride with Guinevere," Tristan volunteered.

She nodded and went over to her father-in-law, taking his arm to escort him out to Alexander's car. "See you there."

XXX

 _Caroline loaded her tray with cups and started down the line of cubicles, pouring coffee for the employees, like she did every morning of this useless internship. She kept glancing at Alexander Dugray's empty workspace and over to the elevator every time she heard it ding. She glanced up at the clock. He was late. She continued with her task, dawdling at his desk, gawking to see if he might magically show up. He didn't though._

 _For some reason it was making her anxious. Surely he'd come into work. He'd never missed a day all summer. In fact, he was always early. Where could he be? Was his sick? Was he stuck in traffic? She tossed another look over at the elevator. She failed to will the doors open. With another look at the clock, she shook her head and turned to notes she had typed up for the boss and the packets she'd stapled together for the morning meeting._

 _She had other things to do today. She told herself to stop thinking about Alexander Dugray._

XXX

Francie looked up at the giant building before them when they arrived in New York an hour later. "Is this someone's house?"

"Yeah, my uncle's," Tristan answered as they joined his parents and grandfather.

"Does he work in finance too?"

"No, he's—" Tristan stopped, apprehensive. "He's the CEO of his company."

As they walked up the sidewalk to the giant house, Guinevere advised Francie, "If you run into Colin and he's an ass—which he will be—just tell him you heard a rumor that his Nantucket reds are made in China. It's not true, but it'll make him feel insecure for the rest of the night."

"What?" she asked Tristan with a frown.

"You have to get them from Murray's Toggery Shop."

Francie still didn't really know what that meant, but she was glad Tristan's sister was giving her advice. The older girl had seemed aloof on the ride here. Francie wanted to make a good impression, she could tell Guinevere was important to Tristan.

Caroline warningly said, "That won't be a problem, Tristan is going to stay away from Lima Hotel tonight." She asked Francie, "Did Tristan warn you?"

"About what?"

"The family. Here there be dragons."

"No." She blinked. "What?"

"You know how mothers teach their children not to say anything if you don't have anything nice to say?"

"Yes."

"Well, my mother died when I was very young, so no one taught us."

Her husband gave her a grim, unimpressed look. "They get loud and argue. They aren't special, just an average Jewish family."

Caroline scoffed at the 'average' part.

Before Francie could process what they were saying, they had reached the door. Caroline rang the bell and a moment later a maid answered and took their coats. A maid!

There were well dressed people all over the first floor of the house, and wait staff laced through with trays—or silver platters, Francie supposed—of hor 'devours. There was a large Christmas tree in the foyer, and another in the living room. It was larger than the average tree, but there was ample room with the tall ceilings. There were strings of garland over the entryways between rooms. Francie wondered if Tristan's cousins and aunt and uncle decorated it all themselves. She had her doubts. This was the work of a professional.

Glancing at all the people milling about, Francie asked, "Are all these people your family?"

"No," Tristan said, moving further into a house and getting separated from his parents and sister as they all dispersed. "There are friends and work acquaintances of my uncle. That's why Mom let me invite you—it isn't just family. They're slightly more civilized when company is present."

As in, they weren't naturally civilized? What kind of family was this?

Tristan proceeded to point out his aunts and uncles and cousins. There was Mitchum and his wife and two kids, all blonds. At a glance, Honor and Logan looked like Guinevere and Tristan's counterparts. Kassie, his aunt, was next. Tristan explained that she was married to the son of a Greek ambassador, and found three boy cousins and one girl in that family, all with shiny black hair and olive skin. And last there was Fox, or Elias, Jr. His three boys were all redheaded like him. In more rustic clothing, they'd all look like Pontipees.

"Fox is their half-brother," Tristan added as an afterthought. "He has a different mom."

They meandered around the party, snatching hor 'devours as they passed by, Tristan pointing out some of the other guests he knew. Plenty of the party goers were strangers to him. But they seemed so . . . important. They all seemed to work for well-known news organizations. Francie vaguely recalled the first week of school, when Tristan said newspapers were his family members' thing. He had not been exaggerating.

They found some guys in one of the back rooms, one being a cousin he had pointed to a bit earlier. The one who lived here. It was the blond with the more-than-passing resemblance to Tristan. He approached them and greeted Tristan friendlily. Tristan, in turn, introduced Francie.

"You brought a date, Casanova?" Logan asked.

Francie smiled at the title.

Tristan nodded. "She's my girlfriend."

"Girlfriend?" Logan asked, smirking a smile. "You're only a freshman. You shouldn't have to settle for one girl until you're married."

Francie frowned and had to consciously keep her jaw from dropping. She was standing _right there_.

Tristan asked, "How will I ever get married if I don't have a girlfriend first?"

His cousin snickered to his two friends, who did the same. "Sounds like we've got a philosopher, boys."

One of Logan's friends gave Francie a quick once-over. "So he's attracted to proles. Very interesting."

Francie was pretty sure that one was Colin, and now was probably the time to make that Nantucket reds quip. She didn't get the chance though.

"We're going to start up a poker game upstairs in a little while," Logan said genially. "You're welcome to join us. I bet you've improved since last time." He gestured to Francie. "And you've got a good luck charm this time."

Tristan rubbed the back of his neck. "I'm going to have to pass. Maybe next time."

"I'm going to hold you to that."

When they walked away, Francie asked, "What happened last time?"

"I lost $7,000 to Colin."

Francie stopped to turn to Tristan, brows furrowed. "$7,000? In real dollars, or Monopoly money?"

He shrugged. "Real money. Dad sat in my place and played with them. Now Colin and Logan owe him."

She glanced around at all the people in this glamorous mansion. These people were not normal. This was an alternate reality. They milled about for a while, Tristan finding some of his other cousins to socialize with. Francie people watched, with interest. Insecurely, she smoothed the skirt of her dress, hoping no one knew it was from JC Penny's. She was sure no one else here shopped there. She did a double take at the bar, sure Tom Brokaw was chatting with another man. She could have been wrong, but it might be Dan Rather. Her brows creased. Who else was here? Real celebrities?

It was an hour or two before his sister turned up again, sidling up to Tristan with a cocktail in hand.

"Any leads?" he asked her.

"A few," Guinevere answered. Then she launched into a convoluted story she'd heard about a friend of hers at another school who broke up with his girlfriend to date someone else. "I heard it from Honor," she concluded. "So it's probably true."

Francie glanced around the party, trying to remember which cousin was Honor. "I have a question," she said. "Did your mom say to stay away from Lima Hotel when we were coming in?"

"Yeah."

"What's the Lima Hotel?"

"It's a who, not a what." Guinevere turned so she could search the guests. She pointed to the blond boy across the room when she found him. "The dauphin." The poker game had apparently not commenced yet.

That didn't clear anything up. It only posed more questions. Francie asked, "Why does she want Tristan to to stay away from him?"

Guinevere's lips quirked into a half smile. "He runs into trouble when Logan is involved," she answered. "Like spring a couple years ago at the Vineyard—"

"I already told her about that," Tristan said, cutting her off.

"Okay, then there was last year's Christmas party, when Finn shared their brownies."

"So?"

"They were spiked," his sister said, starting the story.

 _Guinevere found her brother sitting on a couch in the library. She sat down next to him. "There you are."_

 _Tristan was looking at his hand like he'd never seen a hand before. He was out of it._

 _She frowned. Guinevere had roommates, she knew what Tristan got into. "Are you high?" The guys had edible cannabis in the apartment occasionally. She had some once in while, like after finals. She didn't like the paranoia enough to partake regularly. She asked, "Did you have one of those brownies Logan had?"_

" _It was good, I liked it," he said. "They're really nice guys. Logan and Finn were talking about scaling the wall of Colin's house to get a peek of his hot stepmom."_

" _I don't think you should."_

" _Why? Do you think they don't like me?" he asked, getting a bit riled up. "Why don't they want me to go with them? I could help."_

" _Uh-huh, I'm sure they'd love to have you in their circle of friends. Come on," she said, pulling him up and holding him steady. "Let's find Dad. I think it's time to go home."_

 _He was shaking his head. "But I need to find the guys and tell them I'm in."_

 _They found their mother first. "What's wrong with him?" Caroline asked._

" _Colin and Finn and Logan had some brownies," Guinevere answered. "I think he may have gotten into them."_

" _They gave me one," Tristan disputed. "They're the nicest guys I know. We're best friends."_

 _With angry fire in her eyes, Caroline went to seek out her brother, demanding Logan be punished._

" _Calm down," Mitchum said, his eyes darting to some of the guests who were in earshot. "We grew up in the 60's, don't tell me you've never tried anything. Tristan will be fine."_

" _He's 14. Logan shouldn't have given him drug laced baked goods."_

" _Boys will be boys," Elias said. "Just give him a snack later."_

 _Caroline's furious gaze jerked to her father. She shook her head a little. It was no use, Logan had immunity here. "We're going."_

When Francie looked at Tristan with a brow raised, he said, "Mom doesn't want me to have any fun."

"Did I hear my name?" an Australian voice said, a dark haired guy sidling up to the older girl. "Fair Guinevere, you'll have to tone down your pedantic tendencies if you hope to win this Lancelot's affections."

"Finn, you are the Jar Jar Binks of my life," she said. "I will keep any and all personality traits that repel you."

Finn lifted his chin defiantly. "I don't really care for older women, anyway," he said, walking off.

When he was gone, Francie asked, "Why did you call Logan the dauphin? Isn't that royalty?"

"Yeah," Guinevere said, taking a drink. "Prince in line to be king."

Glancing over at Logan, Francie asked, "But royalty?" They couldn't be real royalty, she thought. Then again, this house was huge and decadent. There were murals on the wall, and real live servants. It actually wasn't that far of a stretch.

"Newspaper royalty," Guinevere said casually. "Logan is the next in line to run the company." Then she asked her brother, "Didn't you tell her about the family?"

Tristan said, "We aren't supposed to tell."

Guinevere rolled her eyes, and nodded toward the party in general. "We aren't supposed to throw it around to get special treatment like other family members," she said pointedly. "The cat's out of the bag now. You brought her to the soap opera, might as well tell her she's in one."

Hesitantly, Tristan tilted his head toward Francie. "Mom's a Huntzberger." His face wore a concerned expression, like this was delicate news. Guinevere eyed Francie without emotion, gauging a reaction.

Francie looked from brother to sister and said, "I'm sorry, is it terminal?"

Guinevere smirked, not unlike her cousin Logan had. "Definitely."

"What's a Huntzberger?"

Tristan asked, "You know _The New York Herald-Tribune_? Our uncle, Mitchum, owns it. He's the publisher and runs the company. It's been in the family for a long time, a hundred years or something."

Not knowing Tristan had already pointed out all of their relatives, Guinevere pointed to their uncle. The man was actually talking to Caroline Dugray. From several feet away, there was something cold about their interaction. It could be the guarded look in Caroline's eye. Francie was probably reading into it though. Maybe the siblings just weren't close.

Guinevere said, "My mom always told me to never trust a blond man."

"Hey," Tristan said.

"It's funny you think you're a man, or that I trust you," she said. She told Francie, "This party is a major networking opportunity for anyone who wants to break in journalism. A lot of the family friends are reporters and editors from major newspapers, or used to be, or know someone who is. I've heard about some openings and I know people who can put in a good word because I come to this every year."

"And harass them," Tristan added.

"I don't harass anyone," she argued. "I just pitch ideas sometimes . . . and ask for professional opinions about articles I've written, sometimes." She shrugged. "It doesn't hurt to ask. The worst anyone can say is no." She added, "Mom has a rival party in the spring. She invites a lot of media people. And then there's her super exclusive Passover Seders. I can't even get invited to that."

Francie was contemplative for a minute. "Can't you just get a job working for you uncle?"

The older girl shrugged. "I've never considered it."

"What about your mom? Has she worked there?"

Guinevere was quiet for a minute, not quick to answer. "She's never really wanted to report for The Herald-Tribune."

Francie thought about it for a while. She wasn't really all that interested in newspapers. She didn't know why owning one was such a big deal. But then again, she wasn't the one living in a giant mansion in New York, so what did she know?

"My dad gets the Sunday edition of The Herald-Tribune most weeks," she said. "He doesn't like The Times, he says it's too liberal."

"Well, it's journalism's job to afflict the comfortable and comfort the afflicted, so newsrooms tend to be full of liberal reporters," Guinevere reasoned. "But he's not wrong."

"Then why did I see it at your house? There was The Courant and The Times, and something else, I think."

"Mom's paper," Tristan supplied.

Guinevere gave a him a strange look for phrasing it that way. "He means the _Wall Street Journal_. Our mom used to work there, in the 80's."

"But of all those papers at your house, I don't remember seeing your uncle's." Francie asked, "Your mom doesn't read her family's paper?"

"We—she," Guinevere stopped. "No."

"Why not?"

Guinevere inhaled and let it out. "I can't think of a reason that won't sound petty."

Francie narrowed her eyes, thinking about this and how odd it seemed. She looked over at their cousin again. He was with his friends, talking and laughing. It didn't look like he was too concerned with anything the adults were talking about. She asked, "Does Logan work at his school newspaper, like you?"

Guinevere snorted. "I doubt it. He just got kicked out of his third boarding school, so I don't know where he'd find the time."

"Why does he get the company then? Was his name drawn from a hat?"

"Oh no, it's not arbitrary. It's Divine Right. He's the oldest boy of the oldest boy."

Francie frowned indignantly and crossed her arms. "What about the oldest girl of the oldest girl?" she asked reflexively.

Tristan's lips puckered slightly and creases formed at his forehead as his eyes slowly shifted to his sister, who silently frowned at the question. He answered, "She networks the holiday party so she can get a sports writing job after college."

Francie looked at Guinevere. "You should be the dauphin?"

"It's dauphine for a girl. And no. Girls don't count in this family," she said. "We don't get to run the company, and Grandpa doesn't like it when we overshadow the boys."

"But you would, if you were a guy?"

Guinevere tilted her head in concession. "If my mom was also a man, then, yes."

What was it Tristan said about his parents' jobs? They went into companies and cleaned house. And Caroline used to work for an important business newspaper. "She could do it."

"Hmm?"

"Your mom. She could do it, couldn't she?" Francie asked. "Is she mad at her dad for not letting her? I would be."

"It's not that bad," Guinevere said with a frown, shifting from one foot to the other. "They aren't Shari and Sumner Redstone—although that's probably only because Dad has rubbed off on her."

Francie folder her arms and shook her head as she looked out at the guests. "That's not fair. I would be mad every time I saw them."

"Well that's a waste of energy." Guinevere leveled Francie a look. "It doesn't matter what anyone wants around here, or what's fair. This is how things work, and dwelling on it won't change anything," she said. "I'm not going to make myself miserable thinking about the way things won't be. I'm going to write about sports because that's what makes me happy."

They were all three silent for a while, Francie scowling about how unfair it was. She glanced over at Logan again, vicariously feeling the contempt for him. "I would hate Logan so much. How much does your mom hate him?"

"He's family. She doesn't hate him," Guinevere protested, not quite convincingly. Then she admitted, "A lot."

XXX

 _Caroline glanced up at the clock for the dozenth time and sighed. Alexander wasn't coming into work today. She'd accepted that, she just didn't understand why she cared this much. He annoyed her most of the summer._

 _But the summer was almost over, she reminded herself. She'd be going back to school soon. So it didn't matter._

 _Still, it felt like something shifted between them. They had connected on an emotional level, and he was extremely repressed, so that was saying something._

 _When she was finished with her tasks for the day, she cleaned up her desk and gathered her things. The door to the executive offices opened and Alexander walked out. Caroline did a double take. She inhaled sharply and her heart beat faster. Had he been in there all day? Did he sneak by without her seeing? It was possible, she_ had _finally stopped looking at the elevator every time it dinged._

 _He wasn't in a suit, but khakis and a button up shirt instead. It was strange to see him semi-casual._

" _Oh, you came in today?" she asked flippantly._

 _He shook his head. He didn't smirk, didn't grin. "I'm just coming for my things from my desk."_

" _Your things? Why?" Had he quit? Or worse, fired? She hadn't heard anything._

 _She noticed he looked pale. He swallowed hard, and hesitatingly opened his mouth. He was definitely pale. "My number came up."_

" _Your number?"_

 _He averted his gaze before looking her in the eye again. "In the draft. I have to go. California for training first, then . . ."_

 _Oh. That number._

 _She felt stick all of a sudden, and was sure she'd just turned as pale as he was. She racked her brain, trying to remember if he'd ever said whether or not he was for the war. She didn't know. "Isn't there something you can do?"_

" _Like what?" he asked her desperately, as though he genuinely wanted to know what else there was to do._

 _She felt prickly and anxious. "Don't they make exceptions when a family loses a son?"_

" _I have three other brothers, Caroline. The name won't die with me."_

 _She swallowed hard to push down the lump that had risen. He could die. "But, someone like you doesn't have to go."_

" _Someone like me?"_

" _Yes, someone who went to Princeton, someone—"_

" _Someone who can get out of it?"_

" _Well, yes." She felt bad saying it out loud, but the line was clear between who went to Vietnam and who avoided it. He was in the privileged set._

 _He didn't say anything for a beat, just nodding once in understanding. "I said the same thing to my brother."_

 _There it was then. He wasn't going to try to get out of it. His number was up and he was going to Vietnam, maybe to his death._

 _He inhaled and let it out resolutely. "I'm going to kiss you goodbye," he said. "You can slap me after, if you want." He didn't give her much time to think before stepping toward her and gently pressing his lips to hers. She closed her eyes and kissed him back, melting into it._

 _When he pulled away, she blinked rapidly, and he braced himself for her hand to make contact with his face. It didn't come though, as she just looked at him helplessly. He nodded once before he picked up a box of his things from his desk and walked away._


	13. 1-9

**A/N:** You would think a story that has lived in my head for almost four years would get written faster. I had a head start on this chapter, but it required a lot of rearranging. The tinkering must end sometime, though.

This chapter has an unrealistically frank discussion on class, bordering on pedantic; a big violation of show, don't tell. But we've been perpetuating the bad example set for us. If anyone is interested in more nuanced observations/experiences of the upper-middle class (yes, upper-middle) than what this show had to offer (wASPs, let's call them), check out the blog _Amid Privilege_ , Tad Friend's _Cheerful Money_ , Paul Fussell's _Class_ , and Lisa Birnbach's _The Official Preppy Handbook_. I liberally borrow from all of them. But if you want to make sense of Emily Gilmore, you're best served by Googling 'Jewish mother stereotype'. More on all this at my LJ.

XXX

Caroline Dugray carefully walked into the former master bedroom with a serving tray, where her husband was lying on the bed, his injured leg propped up. Janlen had given up the room for the spare one upstairs so Alex could stay on the main floor until he healed.

"Soup for the invalid," she announced.

Alex looked up from the book he'd been reading and sat it aside to make room for the tray. "Mmm, thank you." He swallowed a couple pain pills as she fluffed his pillows. Before starting on the soup. He asked, "Do you think you'll ever stop working?"

"You mean retire?" Caroline asked. She shrugged. "Eventually."

He looked at her doubtfully. "But not at 65, surely."

"I don't know. Why do you ask?"

He ate some more soup. "You just don't strike me as the type to ever stop." He adjusted himself on the bed to sit up straighter. "It's okay, work as long as you want, it bodes well with my plans," he said. "I'm think I can retire early."

"Oh really?" she sat at the edge of the bed to hear more.

"Mm-hmm."

"Clearly I've been too good of a nurse," she said. "What will you do with all your free time?"

He tilted his head in thought. "I could take up a hobby."

"Like what? Bird watching?"

"Maybe. I could maintain something."

"That's ambitious," Caroline said. "What will you maintain? The pool?"

"Maybe the driveway."

"Or your waistline."

He winced. "Too mean." He sprinkled some oyster crackers in his soup before eating another spoonful. "I need a pair of go-to-hell pants. Yellow, or something with a print."

"That's cute," she said dryly.

He wagged his spoon at her and with a twisted smile said, "Sometimes you're much preppier than you like to admit."

She rolled her eyes at him. "We should sell the house if you want to call it quits early. We could downsize."

It was quiet as he thought for a moment. "Why did we never move to northern California?" It was, after all, a good way to escape the repression and patriarchal baggage.

"Because I was intimidated by trophy wives," Caroline said as she stood back up. She didn't always know they were just grand dames in training. She paused at the door. "There's something for you under the bowl."

He lifted it to take a peek at the comic hiding underneath. "Marmaduke," he said pleasantly.

XXX

 _Caroline Huntzberger was in Hartford, Connecticut. She had her driver bring her to Janlen Dugray's office, where she was waiting to see him. She looked around the room, it was what she expected. Like her father's desk, Janlen's was made of teak wood, darkened with age. There was a black and white picture in a silver frame that she picked up to examine. Five faces looked back at her, tall and lanky boys in their shetland sweaters. Alexander was at the end, an arm around the brother next to him. Two of the brothers wore pants that were too short, and Alexander's sweater looked too big for him, probably one of his brothers' that he hadn't grown into yet. A big English setter walked in front of them, as though he fully intended to crash the picture._

 _This had to be, without a doubt, the preppiest family in Connecticut, Caroline thought._

 _"Miss Huntzberger, it's nice to see you again," Janlen said, stepping into the room. "To what do I owe the honor?"_

 _He took a seat across from her at the desk as she said, "Oh, I just wanted to confirm some things for my internship next summer."_

 _"All right," he said. "You can start as soon as your classes let out. If you don't want to come to Hartford from New York every day, you're welcome to stay at the house whenever you'd like."_

 _"Thank you," she said._

 _He smiled kindly. When she hesitated, he asked, "Is there anything else?"_

" _Uh, actually, I was wondering if there was an address that one could write Alexander, while he's—away," she said awkwardly. "If one was inclined to do so."_

 _He opened one of his top drawers and pulled out a slip of paper. "Yes." He copied down the address and passed it across the desk. "Now that's just where he's training. So there will be an address change when he's . . ."_

" _Right," Caroline said quickly, letting Janlen off the hook._

 _When she was back at home she sat down in front of a blank piece of paper. She wasn't sure what to write beyond Dear Alexander. What was she supposed to write after that? 'How are you?' That was a stupid question. He was probably nauseous every day. She was any time she thought about where he was going. She was so busy in her conviction the war was wrong, she never took the time to think about what it must feel like to be given marching orders._

 _She sat staring at the blank page for an hour. She put the pen in her other hand. Maybe this was a good time to switch, since as he pointed out, she did everything else left handed. Still, she stared at the paper. She didn't even know how to hold the pen._

 _This was ridiculous. She was a writer, capable of typing up a 500 word story in no time. This should not be so difficult. But reporting was conveying facts about something that had happened. Painting a picture for those who weren't there. What was her purpose here?_

 _She was keeping in touch with an acquaintance, she reasoned. A friend-like acquaintance, who had kissed her before he left, for what could be forever. Caroline shook her head. No, it wouldn't be forever. She'd see him again._

 _She could just imagine Alexander's smug face when he opened a letter from her. As though one kiss could soften her. One kiss that, granted, she did think about a lot._

 _Caroline shook her head and crumpled up the piece of paper._

XXX

The slopes kicked the Dugray's butts this year. Alex blew out his knee in an accident and had to be rushed to the hospital for emergency surgery. Guinevere went out one more time to snowboard on the morning they were to fly home, and had a tumble of her own that resulted in a broken arm. It was the arm she'd already broke once before, in an ill-fated attempt at gymnastics when she was 13. One might think she'd be ambidextrous by now, but one would be wrong.

Loading up all the luggage between the two uninjured family members, Caroline had huffed that she and Alex were going to Jamaica next Christmas, and that Guinevere and Tristan were on their own. The kids weren't convinced it was a joke.

Since their ski trip had been cut short, Tristan was back in time for Francie's mother to invite him to go to mass with their family on New Year's Eve, and he actually agreed to go.

"Did you find out what the Solemnity of Mary is?" Guinevere had asked him the next morning.

"No, I didn't really pay attention to the sermon," was his answer. "But they sang Hail Holy Queen, like they do in _Sister Act_. Did you know that's a real song?"

She looked at him like he was an idiot. "All the songs in that movie are real."

Grinning, he said, "I couldn't keep a straight face, thinking about how bad those nuns sang. Francie's dad gave me the evil eye for that."

When the doorbell rang, Tristan went down to meet Francie at the front door. When he was sure her Mom had driven far enough away, he gave Francie a kiss. She grinned at him and followed him inside the house to the den, where Guinevere was lying on the couch, flipping through an L.L. Bean catalog.

With a look at the older girl's cast, Francie asked, "Are you right handed?"

Guinevere looked down at her injured arm and nodded. "Yeah. I've never been good at bracing myself with my non-dominate arm. That would be way too convenient."

Francie looked around the room as she and Tristan took out their books and notebooks on the floor in front of the fireplace. The den was the favorite room in the house, and very lived in. There were several old oriental rugs on the floor, and a television with bunny ears in the corner. The pieces of furniture weren't a matching set, but somehow went together. One of the walls was covered by a full bookshelf. On the opposite side of the room, there was a wooden cabinet with a few bottles of liquor sitting on top. Above the cabinet on the wall, there were a few silver framed pictures. One was a picture of Alex and his four brothers with the family dog. The two other pictures were just the dog.

"Is something wrong?" Guinevere asked, causing the redhead to blush guilty.

"Oh, no. I'm just looking," Francie said. She gestured at the television set. "Last year a girl in my class was talking about their new flat screen TV. It hangs on the wall. I thought for sure you would have one."

"Why?"

"Because you're rich."

"Hmmmm." Guinevere turned back to her catalog, as though bored.

"Actually, your uncle's house was closer to what I was expecting when I came here the first time—a mansion, with servants."

Tristan said, "There are different kinds of rich. Dad's a Wasp."

Francie rolled her eyes. "Is that supposed to explain something?" she asked. "Doesn't it just mean the money is old, so you've been super rich forever?"

"It means it's so old, it's pretty much gone. The Dugrays have been here a long time—long enough to make a fortune _and_ lose it," Guinevere said. "They ran out in the 60's, and haven't had servants since then." She added, "All that's left are impeccable manners and a lot of navy in their wardrobes. And the repression, of course."

It was not to say their dad didn't get a little something when his grandfather died. He inherited the coffee table and a few of the books over on the shelf, Tristan was pretty sure it was the green ones.

She said, "Dugrays aren't top-out-of-sight anymore."

"Then what are you?"

Guinevere bit down on her lips for a few seconds, not liking the question. It reminded Tristan of the time when he was younger and he asked his dad if they were rich. Alex had looked away like he was ashamed, and didn't really answer. Delicately, like she'd rather not say it out loud, she said, "Upper-middle."

Francie looked surprised. "I wouldn't have thought middle anything."

"And yet it explains why you're underwhelmed. Dad has to work if he doesn't want to be poor. And Wasps are afraid of being poor."

"So the Huntzberger money is new?" Francie asked.

Guinevere tilted her head in consideration. "Not anymore, it's just not as old. They haven't had enough time to lose their fortune yet. But Logan is the next patriarch, so I assume he'll gamble it away," she said. "You're still wrong about who would have a fancy TV, but it's crass to talk about money and class, so let's stop."

Francie turned to Tristan, her mouth open like she wanted to protest, but held it in. She flipped through her book to the chapter their teacher had told them to study. But when she picked up her pen, it wasn't to write any notes, but to tap it anxiously. She sat up suddenly to look at Guinevere with wide, triumphant eyes. "As a journalist, aren't you allowed to tell the truth about sensitive subjects?"

Guinevere eyed her. "Technically."

"And I clearly have a lot of misconceptions about people who are different from me. Isn't it your job to inform the ignorant?"

"Yes," she said slowly.

"It would be really helpful for me to learn more. I'm having trouble relating to the other kids at school. You could really help me understand them better."

The older girl just stared at first. Then she let out a long breath. Very reluctantly, she said, "Fine. But keep in mind, class is really complex."

Francie nodded, and getting down to the nitty-gritty, she bluntly asked, "Do you guys have trust funds?"

 _That Which Shan't Be Spoken._

Guinevere cringed. Lips firmly pressed together, she hesitantly said, "Mm-hmm." She gave her brother a warning look. "Don't talk about it. At all. _Ever_."

Tristan ducked his head down. "I know." The only details he knew was he'd get it when he turned 31, so late he could potentially forget about it, and that it was Not Enough. Living off their windfalls was not an option.

"This is a bad idea," Guinevere said, backpedaling. "I don't know if you've noticed, but the other half is loathed by the masses. There's a reason one of the guys running for president has cultivated the persona of a cowboy from Texas rather than a preppy who summers at the family compound in Kennebunkport."

"Come on, please," Francie said. "I promise I won't hate you for being more privileged than me. I'm just interested. Surely you can respect curiosity."

Tristan never gave this stuff any thought. Everyone he knew was like his family.

Guinevere closed her eyes, steeling for patience. When she opened them, she said, "First, we're all privileged to be alive. Second, let's not use the P word anymore."

"Okay, sorry."

She sighed again, like this was painful. To Tristan, she nodded toward the entrance. "Keep watch, tell me if anyone's coming." When he was in place, she turned back to Francie. "There are more important differences between the two sides of the family. The Dugrays are discreet, and repressed."

"You mentioned the repression."

"I know, their self-restraint is all encompassing. They refuse to bring attention to themselves, in any way. No paisley prints, no showing off, no complaining, no outward show of emotion, no gaudy decor," Guinevere said. "I can't stress to you enough how much they are obsessed with posture."

Tristan added, "And the manners."

His sister nodded. "Yes, etiquette is very important. Even if they're having an argument, it'll be excruciatingly polite," she said. "They proudly follow a complex system of obligations. They'll offer you a fruit plate, and then take it a step further and say they were overzealous out in their garden this spring, so you'll be doing them a huge favor by eating some."

"Why?"

"It lifts the burden of generosity off of you. It makes you comfortable to take what's being offered. It's not some phony facade. They genuinely want their guests to be at ease. The last thing they'd want is for someone to feel foolish or embarrassed for any reason." She frowned. "They aren't without their contradictions. They value hard work, but too much play and not enough work before the Depression helped them lose their money," she said. "And family is important, but they're perfectly fine with letting their kids struggle."

Tristan looked over at her. "What do you mean?"

His sister didn't seem to want to give an example. "Just, don't expect Dad to bail you out if you make bad choices, okay? He won't always take your spot in a poker game when you're down $7,000."

He didn't know what she could be talking about. She'd never gotten into any big trouble. Maybe she was thinking of a relative.

She turned her attention back to Francie. "They aren't snobs."

"I didn't think they were."

"Sure," Guinevere said skeptically. "The phrase 'rich snob' naturally rolls off the tongue, but the two aren't mutually exclusive. _The New Yorker_ wouldn't have any subscribers if not for middle class pretensions."

"Uh, okay," Francie said, her eyes darting to the magazines and newspapers piled up next to one of the armchairs. _The New Yorker_ wasn't among them. Instead there were a few issues of _Town & Country _and _National Geographic_.

"The Dugrays are good people. They aren't without a few alcoholics, but they're good people. They don't think they're better than anyone else." Guinevere muttered, "It's prep school that gives a person that strange idea."

"What about the Huntzbergers?" Francie asked.

"They are none of those things," Guinevere said. "Being upper, they're more ostentatious. Not quite Hearst Castle, but close. Huntzbergers want to be noticed, they like the special treatment. And it's important to know, they do not care about anyone's comfort. They _will_ say whatever they're thinking to whomever they want."

"So they're like high school girls?"

Guinevere nodded in agreement. "It could be that the journalistic instinct runs too deep for them to bother with discretion. But they might just be jerks."

Tristan asked, "What does our TV have to do with anything?"

His sister glanced at him. "Oh, it's signaling," she said. "It's all the choices people make in life, regardless of their income that signals their class."

"You mean you don't have to have money to have class?" Francie asked.

The older girl rocked her head back and forth. "I won't go _that_ far. It definitely helps to have it. But take a person's job, for example. You could earn more than your neighbor, but if you're under close supervision—or if you can get hurt—you're still lower class."

"Oh," Francie said, pondering that. "What are other signals?"

"Everything. Everything. Every choice one makes about everything," Guinevere said. "Absolutely everything."

"Such as?"

Guinevere blinked. "Your driveway."

Francie scoffed, like she thought it was a joke. "What about it?"

"High class people have long curvy driveways. Made of gravel—but not white." At Francie's blank look, she explained, "Long for the privacy, and curvy to take up more land. And no gate at the end. That's pretentious."

Francie frowned in disbelief. "Why off-white gravel?"

"It's inconvenient and expensive to maintain. It's called the leisure class for a reason. They have a lot of time and money."

"Oh," Francie said.

"Neither of which gets spent on the most up-to-date television." Guinevere eyed her brother. "I'm not saying a teenage kid wouldn't have some fun at the electronics store. But uppers in general don't care about the latest technology."

"Ah, that's why your TV is so old."

"Well, that's also because uppers love _all_ things archaic," she explained. "Old schools are a favorite, where they teach old subjects like history and Latin, and English."

It made sense then, that Tristan's history class didn't interest him. He wanted to learn about modern conflicts, like the Vietnam War. His dad never talked about it, and he didn't feel comfortable asking.

Guinevere went on, "The humanities are high class. They aren't just old subjects, but also not practical. Uppers never worry about the future. That's why Columbia is the least preppy Ivy League school. It's very career oriented."

"What's _your_ major?" Francie asked.

"Classics—ancient Greek and Roman civilizations," Guinevere answered. "But that's because I'd get lazy if I went to journalism school," she said. "And I wouldn't hustle to get articles published in small town papers if I had a fallback option. I need the fear of failure. I'd get it in my head that the brand name on the school is enough to impress."

"But don't you go to Harvard?"

Guinevere made a face. "No. Did someone say I do?" She gave her brother a look.

"It wasn't me," Tristan said at the accusation.

"I assumed," Francie said. "He said you go to school in Massachusetts. And someone at school is obsessed with Harvard."

"There are a lot of schools in Massachusetts." The older girl shook her head. "Did you know the _Harvard Crimson_ calls all the staff writers editor? I could never go to a school where words lose their meaning. I go to Williams. It's a little Ivy."

"It's still old and distinguished," Tristan said.

"True. Anyway, the houses are old, with kitchens that aren't state-of-the-art." Francie looked around the room some more, with its old furniture and ancient oriental rugs. New rugs didn't have class. "Even clothes, like Dad's suits. They're impeccably tailored and he'll wear them until they fall apart before he buys new ones."

Speaking of clothes, Tristan was pretty sure his sister was wearing one of his flannel shirts.

Francie appeared skeptical at that. "I thought rich people can just replace their stuff whenever they want."

"It doesn't mean they do. It's the middles who are obsessed with new things," Guinevere said. "Why buy new pearls or bone china, or a summer house when it can be inherited?"

"House, not home?" Francie said, remembering how Tristan had clarified.

"Yeah, good point. The way a person speaks is a reliable giveaway," Guinevere said. "Euphemisms and metaphors are middle class. So are using big fancy words to sound eloquent. It's really just pretentious." Returning to the previous point, she said, "Dignity is what's expendable. If one is secure in their status, they don't care about things being perfect. They aren't worried about a little crab grass in their yard—"

"That's the bane of my mom's existence."

"And can drive a dirty car—"

"My mom hates dirty anything. What will people think?"

"Those people? They're the snobs." Guinevere smirked. "Showing effort is insecure."

"Don't try?"

"Don't make it look like you're trying."

Tristan wasn't sure if he'd ever seen his sister do homework. She'd skip class and attend every sporting event, but still managed to get decent grades.

Guinevere rubbed her forehead. "I know this isn't the full picture, but really, it is just everything. How you dress, your pet's name, what your food and clothes are made of—we prefer natural, things that used to be living." She held up her reading material. "The catalogs you order from. Can we please stop this dissection now? You can keep up with your own observations."

"Yeah, okay." Hesitantly, Francie said, "Just one more thing. Do you think your parents care that I'm . . . not so high class?"

"It's the 90's, Sabrina," Guinevere quoted in a bored voice.

"It's not the 90's anymore, and who's Sabrina?"

" _Sabrina_ , the movie? The remake, not the original," she said. "The old one is terrible, but people like it because they're partial to Audrey Hepburn."

"But your partiality to space pirates is so different," Tristan said dryly.

She rolled her eyes. "Okay, Harrison Ford's Linus Larrabee _is_ witty and funny, but that isn't the only reason the remake is better. Audrey Hepburn tries to kill herself in the original," Guinevere said. "It's supposed to be a romantic comedy. Suicide will never be funny. And Hepburn and Bogart don't have any chemistry. Probably because he's so much older."

Francie interrupted, "I'm sorry, what was the point?"

"Oh. It's that we aren't living in an Edith Wharton novel. Linus Larrabee is from a rich family and Sabrina is their driver's daughter. No one cares about the gap between their social status."

After a silent moment of thought, Francie said, "I thought you said old stuff is classier. The original is old."

"I'm also too afraid of horses to get into equestrian sports, and just had a highly taboo discussion," Guinevere said. "Obviously, I am not the epitome of class." She added, "But I do wear a lot of layers, so I have that going for me."

"So no one cares that I'm a middle?"

Both siblings shook their heads.

"Everyone is pretty much stuck wherever they're born, but you do go to Chilton. Education is the most effective way to move up." Guinevere said, "And preppy can be faked." With her good arm, she reached for a book on the shelf and handed it to Francie. "Just refer to the handbook if you want to be really top drawer."

XXX

 _Caroline stood at the window of the Herald-Tribune subscription office, carefully copying the address Janlen had given her onto a form. Unable to come up with a brilliantly witty way to break the ice in a letter, she'd decided to send him her newspaper._

 _When she finished with the form, she pulled out a blank piece of paper from her bag, and again stared at it. Rolling her eyes at herself, she hastily wrote, 'I would hate for you to miss out on Marmaduke,' and signed it CH. She shook her head. Alex had better imagine her saying that in a condescending tone when he read it._

 _She handed the form over to the woman on the other side of the window and said, "Could you make sure this note is inside the first issue that's sent to this address?" She quickly added, "In the comic section."_

 _The woman frowned at her. "Oh, we don't actually do that, sorry."_

 _Caroline leaned in, her eyes narrowing. "Well, I'm Caroline Huntzberger. My father owns and runs this paper, and one day I will. So maybe you can make an exception?"_


	14. 1-10

Paris pulled the textbook from her previous class out of her backpack, switching it for four from her locker that she would need for this weekend's homework. Rethinking it, she snatched the one she'd just put away and added it to the collection in her bag. She'd rather take it and not need it rather than wish she had it when she was stuck at home, locked out of the school for two whole days.

She turned just enough to be punished by the sight of Tristan walking Francine Jarvis to her locker, holding her hand. Paris clenched her jaw and her brows lowered. It was a common sight since school was back in session after the holiday break a couple months ago. Tristan was the model boyfriend, as Paris was always sure he would be. He walked Francine to class, leaving her with a flirty smile and a kiss. It was sickening.

On more than one occasion, Paris had the misfortune of overhearing them make weekend plans to meet up. Apparently, Francine's parents made it home every night and wanted her to be there with them. Spoiled brat.

It wasn't fair. Francine Jarvis didn't know anything about Tristan. She didn't know him the way Paris did. Francine was obviously coddled by her parents, having no idea what it was like for kids like Tristan and Paris. They went long stretches of time home alone, with only the supervision of their nannies. And just like her own, Tristan's mother was hard on him.

 _It was almost time for morning recess, and Mrs. Schneider was assigning practice problems before giving them their math assignment. There was a sharp rap of knuckles on the door and the whole class glanced over to see Tristan's mother, wearing a stern expression. The teacher went over and shared a quiet word, then turned to Tristan and gestured with a single finger for him to join them. Caroline Dugray turned her sharp gaze on her son and pulled him out to the hall to have a private word with him._

 _Paris leaned in her seat to listen to Mrs. Dugray. She couldn't make out what was being said through the door, but she recognized the tone, loud and clear. It was the familiar sound of disapproval. Disappointment._ You are not good enough, so you'd better get your act together. I won't love you until you do.

 _Paris loved Tristan, since kindergarten. He never disappointed her. He was cute, sure, but he was also the only one in the class besides her that could find Israel on a world map. She knew what that meant. He must be Jewish, like her. She felt her connection to him was much stronger than anyone else's._

 _When Tristan came back into the classroom, his head was lowered, trying to hide his shame. His mother watched him take his seat, still looking severe. Paris pretended she was too busy with her practice problems to have heard the scolding. She subtly watched Caroline tell their teacher in a low voice that Tristan would be staying in from recess so he could fix his assignments. She gave her son a final warning look before leaving._

 _Paris glanced at the forlorn Tristan and her heart went out to him. When the teacher started dismissing the students who were finished with their practice problems to quietly line up for recess, Paris asked if she could stay inside to read a book. When the class was gone, she slowly went to the bookshelf at the back of the room to pretend to deliberate over the titles. She picked one at random and lingered at the desk beside Tristan's._

 _She quickly scanned his page of homework, pointing at one of the problems he'd redone. "That's still wrong," she said quietly._

 _He frowned at the equation and erased the answer. He tried again, silently pausing for her to look._

" _Mm-hmm," she said discreetly._

 _He did a poor job of hiding a sniffle. "I didn't even know she was home," he said miserably. Paris knew his dad traveled a lot for work, but his mother didn't even live with them in Hartford during the week. She had an apartment in New York, where she worked. At least he had a sister though, so he wasn't_ all _alone. Paris envied him for that._

 _She stayed by his desk until he was finished redoing the assignment, pretending she was engrossed with her book between checking his work. "They're all right now," she told him after he'd written the last new answer._

" _Thanks," he mumbled as he flipped to a page they had to write for English last week. It was an opinion essay. They had to pick a topic and give their reasons to support their thoughts, using linking words._

 _Paris read what Tristan had written. "It wasn't an informative essay," she told him. "You wrote about the facts, you were supposed to write what you thought about it, and why." She was surprised he'd misunderstood the assignment. His sister taught them this stuff in newspaper club, which made the essay so easy for Paris. Didn't he pay attention? He frowned up at her. "That's all?" He pulled out a clean sheet of paper and picked up his pencil. "That's easier."_

 _Maybe this assignment was why his mom was so mad at him. Paris still didn't sympathize with her though. As his mother, Mrs. Dugray should have been there to help him and check his work._

That wasn't the only time Caroline Dugray's treatment of her son angered Paris. There was also the science fair in sixth grade, when they'd received participation ribbons. Caroline had scowled at it and threw it in the trash, telling Tristan he could have a prize when he won. Though Paris agreed with the woman in theory, it still seemed unnecessarily harsh. And public.

If it was anyone else, Paris would easily respect and admire the highly accomplished woman.

She had the sneaking suspicion Mrs. Dugray didn't love her children equally. After all, her daughter was a journalist like her, while Tristan wasn't exactly going out for _The Franklin_. Paris didn't have any siblings, but she was pretty sure parents weren't supposed to have favorites.

With a glare, Paris watched Tristan and Francine across the hall. She asked, "Why does he like her?"

Louise, shrewdly glancing in the direction Paris was looking, turned back. "Isn't it obvious?"

"Would I be asking if it was?" Paris asked impatiently.

Louise sighed. "Look at him."

Paris did. His tie was slightly crooked and he must have grown two inches since the start of the school year, because his pants were a little too short now.

"He's the embodiment of an archetype, the feckless prep school boy," Louise said. "And she went to Catholic school." She turned her attention back to applying her lip gloss.

"So?"

"So he has a classic virgin-whore complex," Louise said. She could teach a class in useless nonsense. Paris raised her brow, urging the girl to get to her point. "Everyone knows Catholic school girls give off the appearance of purity and innocence but are actually naughty."

Paris glowered at her friend. "Everyone knows that?"

Louise rolled her eyes. "Watch a music video." She tossed the couple another glance and then looked back to Paris. "Don't worry. It doesn't last. In the end he'll marry his own kind."

Paris closed her locker and zipped up her book bag, leading Madeline and Louise to their last class of the day. She watched Tristan part from Francine to go down the hall to another class. Knowing she was in Francine's earshot, Paris said, "You're over thinking it. Tristan obviously just goes for girls who aspire to be trophy wives."

The redhead, who had been pleased with Paris's jealousy a second ago, glared at her. Paris grinned back.

XXX

The Chilton cheerleading team was in the locker room after school, getting ready for practice. Another group of girls was trickling into the room to change into t-shirts and shorts. It was the volleyball team. When the cheerleading coach stuck her head in to yell at her squad to hurry up, the girls picked up their pom-poms and filed out.

A couple of the girls passed an underclass girl and boy, saying goodbye before going their separate directions.

The dark haired girl's eyes followed the blond boy as he left. "Where can I get one of those?"

The girl beside her glanced over at Tristan dismissively and back to the other girl, Isabella James. "A freshman?"

"Yes, and look at him. Who cares what grade he's in?" She added, "I'm only a year older."

"Well he's right there. Go get him," the other girl said.

Isabella pouted and countered, "He's with Strawberry Shortcake." She jerked her head to Francie.

Her friend gave her a very strange look as they reached the door that went outside. "So? You're a Puff."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning, you can have whatever you want. Take it."

XXX

 _Mitchum walked down the stairs and went to the den, where his older sister was sitting on the couch, reading a letter. It must not have been one she found in their father's study, because she had a strange twisted smile on her face as she read it, as though she was trying but failing to restrain herself._

 _"What are you reading?" he asked as he joined her._

 _Startled, she refolded the letter and put it back in its envelope without letting him see it. "Nothing." She had a small stack of newspaper clippings on the coffee table that she reached for. It was the end of summer, and it was time to tally up who'd gotten the most articles published._

 _Caroline lined hers up on the table for him to see. "Five." She looked at Mitchum expectantly. "How many do you have?"_

 _Triumphantly, he laid his article clippings out. There were 11._

 _As he lined them up, one after the other, her face fell. "You got_ all _those published? How did you get so many more than me?"_

 _He shrugged. "Maybe I wrote more than you."_

 _She gave him a withering glare. "I wrote six more than you." She looked back down at his articles, dumbfounded._

 _"Did you tell them who you are? I find editors are more receptive after they've heard the magic word."_

 _She didn't like to, but it really was like magic. "Only when I thought I had to." She looked back at him. "But it still worked better for you."_

 _He shrugged. "Then I guess it's time to face the facts. I'm the better writer," Mitchum said with a smirk. "We officially have undisputed proof now."_

 _His dear sister did not like hearing that. He could see her disagreement in her eyes before she voiced it, "I edited half of yours when I typed them up. If anything, I'm the better writer," she said. Her conviction was lacking though, a little less sure with the evidence in front of them. She sat back, her arms crossed._

 _He gave her a cunning grin. "Let's go out and celebrate how talented I am. I'll pick the place since I won."_

 _She rolled her eyes. Pained, she said, "Not a jazz club."_

 _His grin stretched wider. "Come on, you'll like it."_

 _She sat back up. "No I won't, I don't understand jazz. The songs never end. They just go on and on and on, forever," she complained. "And the club will be all smokey." She added, "You just want me to buy you drinks."_

 _Encouragingly, he said, "No, I want you to come. I'll explain jazz to you. Again."_

 _Caroline deadpanned, "Another jazz lesson from the whitest guy in the world, lucky me."_

 _He grinned again. "Think positive. It's going to be fun."_

 _She smirked mischievously now. "Maybe you're right. They might segue into 'My Favorite Things.' I would really enjoy that."_

 _Mitchum's face fell. "Ugh, I hope not. I hate when that happens. That song is the worst."_

 _She grinned a little and hummed the song, finishing with, "_ These are a few of my favorite things _." Speaking again, she said, "I don't understand why it bothers you so much. It's very catchy. Perfect for jazz flute."_

" _I just don't like it, okay?"_

" _I have a theory," she said, looking fully cheered up now and eager to share. "I think it's because of that nanny—remember the one who tried to von Trapp Dad?"_

 _She was a new nanny, hired after their mother died and Elias replaced the entire house staff. She had a habit of singing songs from the infernal play. Mitchum and Caroline suspected she hoped to marry their widower father. Whether or not they were on to something, it didn't happen._

" _Maybe," he admitted. "It was very annoying." He hopped up. "I'm going to go change."_

" _Fine," she said, sitting back and taking her letter out again. "I'll be here."_

 _Mitchum glanced back when he got to the door. His sister had that strange dopey grin on her face again._

XXX

Caroline walked down the stairs Saturday morning with a frown on her face at the sound of banging. When she reached the main floor, she found her father-in-law hammering a nail into the wall next to his bedroom. Janlen had been able to move back down to his room, Alex's leg having healed enough for him to manage the stairs again, though he still had a limp and liked using a cane.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

Janlen glanced at her as he carefully aligned a framed picture on the nail. "I'm hanging a picture."

When he stepped back for her to see, she opened her mouth in protest. "Now why are you hanging that one?"

He looked at it. "I like it. It's one of my favorites." It was a black and white picture of Caroline in her white dress on her wedding day, forlornly gazing out into the distance.

"I look sad." Couldn't he just put one up of him walking her down the aisle? She had bucked up by then.

"Sad can be beautiful," he said, admiring the photo for a moment. He took it off the wall and traded it for another. "There's this one, if you prefer."

Caroline gasped and covered her mouth with her hand. "I don't. Take that down." It was another of her, in a horrible suit that had shoulder pads. "When is that from, 1986?"

He contemplated her image in the picture. "Somewhere around there."

"My shoulders look terrifying." Like they could cut something with their razor sharp edges. She turned a threatening glower at her father-in-law. "I can put you in a home, you know. Alex wasn't sure about you living with us, but I said he's family and shouldn't be all alone, we have to take him in."

Janlen grinned at her good naturedly. "The 80's weren't so bad."

"Power suits, 'greed is good?'" she countered.

"I didn't care for that," he admitted, having a deep-seated distaste for avarice. "But you did well for yourself, and we got Tristan."

Yes, a son who reminded her of her brother every time she looked at him, she thought, how lucky.

He took the picture down. "I suppose we could keep the 80's where they belong."

"In the past, yes."

"Then that means this one will have to do." He put the wedding photo back on the wall.

She sighed grimly. "Fine."

When the doorbell rang, she left to greet her sister. She brewed them some tea and they settled onto the couch in the den. "You were upset about something?" Caroline asked. Her sister had called this morning uncharacteristically riled up.

"Mm," Kassandra said with a nod, taking a sip of her tea. "I was talking to Fox a couple days ago. Did you know Dad gave him and Mitchum land when they got married?"

"Yes. Did you not know?"

"No, listen, he _gave_ them land, Caroline. For free. He just handed it over," she said, incredulity covering her face. "When _I_ was getting married and asked him for a modest piece of land, he said no. Nicolas and I were going to pay him, too. And he still refused."

Caroline waited for the denouement of this diatribe, but it didn't come. "And?"

"And?" Kassandra said impatiently. "That's not fair."

"That's how it goes," Caroline said easily. "Is this your first day in the Huntzberger family?"

Kassandra sighed in frustration. "Why couldn't he give me a few acres? I'm family. And we were going to pay for it."

Caroline didn't say anything, she just gave her sister a pointed look.

"Oh don't look at me like that. I know. They're male, and we're female."

"The feudal estate passes to the boys only."

"We are not in medieval Europe. It's not fair. We're just as much family as the boys," Kassandra said with a deep frown. "Is this what it feels like to be you every day?"

The older sister lifted a shoulder. "I've reached an age where I don't give a damn."

Kassandra made a dissenting sound in her throat and smiled. "I know it isn't _your_ first day as a Huntzberger. I didn't think Dad was willfully cruel, but now I'm not so sure." She thought for a moment, then asked, "Remember when Dad rubbed it in your face when Kay Graham passed over Laly for Donald as her successor?"

"Mm," Caroline said with a nod. It was at the holiday party, the year after she'd middle named her firstborn in honor of her hero. If Elias had thought she'd been deflated, he was right. A lesser blow, though still incredibly disappointing, was when she read Graham's memoir a year ago to find out the publisher didn't think women should be executives. And there was the time the girls at _Newsweek_ sued and she didn't know whose side she was supposed to be on. It was true what they said, never meet your heroes.

Kassandra shook her head. "He shouldn't have done that. It was hurtful."

She thoughtfully took a sip. "That's probably not the best example. Elias runs his family and company like everyone else has for generations. Even the family with a woman in charge wasn't an exception, and he wanted to make sure I knew."

"I can't believe you're trying to see things from his side."

Caroline lifted a shoulder again. "You aren't supposed to be the cynical one, I'm trying to talk you down." Sweet natured, mild-mannered Kassandra kept the family together, whether she took credit for it or not. There'd be a real breakdown of the system if she started taking sides.

"So it was just Dad's misfortune to get stuck with an ambitious self-righteous feminist for a daughter?"

Caroline grinned easily. "Yes."

"By your theory, I suppose he doesn't think it's fair you make him the bad guy for doing things the same way as everyone else," Kassandra said, back to her fair-minded self. But then she frowned. "Except, that's letting him off the hook easy. He wasn't nice when you won a Pulitzer. Even if he was mad that you overshadowed Mitchum, that's not an excuse to brush the whole thing off."

"Mm," Caroline muttered neutrally. She could _try_ to force her stubborn father into reevaluating his dynastic choices all she wanted, but he punished her, tearing her down every time.

" _JD's throwing a party in Caroline's honor next month," Alexander informed the others, discreetly omitting the reason for the party. It was June, and the family was at the Vineyard. "The invitations should be in the mail any day." It wasn't in him to brag, but bless him, he tried for Caroline._

" _That's nice of him," Shira said with a smile. "I got my hopes up when Mitchum was shortlisted for the Pulitzer a few years ago. I wanted to throw him a big party and invite everyone we know."_

 _It was for his reporting on the Iranian hostage crisis. About five minutes after Honor was born, he was out the door to cover it._

 _Resenting Shira for shifting attention to Mitchum, Caroline inquired, "When everyone says 'shortlisted,' do you mean he was_ nominated _or that he submitted work for consideration? There's a difference." She would know, she submitted articles for six years before winning a coveted prize this spring. It took a long time and hard work, but she finally proved to everyone once and for all who the best reporter in the family really was._

" _What does it matter?" Elias asked harshly, annoyed with Caroline. "Those awards are just a mutual admiration society anyway," he said, like he was Bertie McCormick, strange as it was, Elias being a New Yorker._

 _His words cut her like a knife. All that effort and he didn't even care. He wasn't impressed. He wasn't proud. He didn't brag about his talented daughter to his friends. She secretly hoped he at least privately counted her as a feather in his hat. She should have known, when he failed to give her so much as a congratulations when the awards were announced. She hadn't proved anything._

 _Caroline was careful not to let it show his words affected her. She cooly narrowed her eyes at her father. Confidently, she said, "And yet, you probably submitted his work for him."_

" _Maybe I did," Elias said. "Which means he wasn't even trying."_

 _In that moment she was sure he could see through her, knew how many times she'd tried for the prize and failed, how hard she tried to win his respect and admiration. And he was throwing in her face that he never would. If anything, she managed to anger him._

 _She didn't respond as she took a seat next to her sister. Kassandra was holding the baby, Logan. Caroline hadn't asked to hold him, didn't coo over him like the rest of them. She was as indifferent to the new addition to the family as Elias had been when Guinevere was born, though she was his first grandchild._

 _Mitchum had successfully achieved the ultimate goal a few months ago. He fathered a son. Produced an heir. Ensuring that the Huntzberger dynasty continued for another generation was the only thing Elias was concerned with. Actual monarchies had evolved to absolute primogeniture, such as Sweden a few years prior, but not the Huntzberger family. Long live the patriarchy._

Kassandra contemplated her sister. "You get to him, you know."

"I do not."

"You do too. You used to be Daddy's little girl, you idolized him, and he lost you," she said. "I think that hurts him."

Caroline scoffed and shook her head. "Let's not go that far. I piss him off. I'm too uppity, believing I deserve as much respect as his sons. He doesn't care what I think or do." She stirred her tea for something to do and resolutely said, "That's fine. I don't need his validation."

Kassandra half smiled, her disbelief evident, knowing full well needing did not discount wanting.

XXX

If Francie had thought dating a popular boy would help her status among her classmates, she could not have been more wrong. All the other girls in their class who had been indifferent of her existence now had definite animosity toward her. The more weeks went by dating Tristan, the more her peers hated her.

They were just going to have to get over it. She really liked Tristan, and he was a good boyfriend. She was anxious when laying out all of her parents' rules they had to follow just to be able to date. But if he felt inconvenienced, he didn't let on. He was always a perfect gentleman around her parents, she didn't understand why her dad hated him so much.

"Did you know crew is the preppiest sport and Princeton is the preppiest Ivy League school, but crew at Princeton is a joke?" she asked Tristan as he walked her to the cafeteria for her lunch period.

"I did not," he said. He had made the crew team that spring, going to practice after school when Francie was at volleyball practice.

"It's a paradox. Kind of like how going to an Ivy is preppy even though the schools themselves aren't." She added, "Except Princeton." Tristan was probably going to Princeton, like his dad and grandpa.

Francie had been studying up with the book his sister lent her. She was strongly contemplating trying out for the girls' field hockey team next year.

After a parting kiss, Francie joined the line to get her tray. Once she was served, she glanced around the large hall, looking for a seat at a table where no one would mind her being there. Just when she found one and took a seat, an older girl with dark hair came approached. "Sit with us please."

Francie looked up in surprise. The girl led her over to a table full of girls, all older, where she was shown an empty seat next to a girl she recognized. It was the one Paris Geller was always sucking up to, Isabella James. This table was Puffs territory, she was sure. The Puffs wanted Francie to sit with them.

Isabella named all the girls seated at the table, then said, "And you're Frenchie, right?"

"Francine, actually. But you can call me Francie." Maybe she'd made some progress after all. Things were finally looking up.


End file.
